The Artist's Model
by InkBud
Summary: AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across the beautiful Bella Swan.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 1: New Direction

"You don't like it." It was a statement, not a question.

Carlisle ran a finger through his wild blonde hair, heaving a sigh that sounded far too old for his mere 33 years on Earth. He shook his head slowly. "It's excellent, as always, but I wish you would choose different subject matter."

I rolled my eyes. What a diplomat. An insult within a compliment. Nevertheless, he _was _the one paying my bills and so I scrutinized my own painting, trying to imagine what a stranger would think of it.

It was one of my finest works, I had to admit. It depicted my model, Rosalie I think her name was, seated in a chair. She was nude just like all the other women in my paintings, and her pose was very sexual, her lips dark and head tipped back to reveal a slim white neck. The dark curtaining and paneling in the background made it a very dramatic and alluring piece, almost as if she was a succubus, luring men into the folds of her rosy flesh.

I frowned. "What's wrong with my subject matter?"

From his hesitation, I could tell Carlisle was picking his words carefully, trying not to upset me. "It's always the same."

"It's a series. The subject matter should be similar."

Carlisle shot me a withering glare. "In all my years of being your donor and sponsor, I would think you'd be able to find subject matter for more than just one series."

I crossed my arms and rocked back and forth on my heels. It was a common feeling for an artist to feel underappreciated "Well, what do you want me to do? Paint fruit, or maybe a landscape? Hard-edged abstraction?"

Carlisle grimaced and I tried not to smile. I knew of his hatred of Vasarely and the op art movement in general. He always insisted it wasn't "real" art.

"That's not what I mean. What I'm trying to say is that Picasso didn't always paint in the cubist style."

Now I was confused. "You want me to ditch the realism and go for expressionism?"

"No, no, no! But all your women are such sexual creatures. Try showing a different side of them. It's about time you understood their tenderness."

"I understand all about women's _tenderness_." My voice was dark. I turned away from him, suddenly overcome by the bitter memory that occurred so many years ago.

I had just turned seventeen and was brimming over with the joy of growing up, of falling in love. I met a Russian beauty two weeks ago, one with hair the colour of the sun's golden rays, her eyes clear like a lake in June. I quickly became obsessed with her, thoughts and dreams of her melodious laugh haunting me in light and dark. She had felt the same way, or so I thought. How many countless hours we had spent lying in my backyard, her head tucked between my chin and shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into her ears? Too soon I found her entwined in another man's arms. I didn't stay long enough for her to discover me, and never again did I speak to her though she called and pleaded.

She was a succubus, a voice whispered in my head, though the more rational part knew she deserved to have a say. But my heart, aching with the pain of betrayal refused to let her see me in such a state. Since then, I had not allowed myself to become close to a woman. Always I dealt with my models in a coolly professional manner. I knew that if a woman laced herself into my icy heart, in the end, she would devour it even if at the start her intentions were noble.

I paced around my studio after Carlisle left, thinking about this supposed new direction I was to be heading in. He advised me to find a sweet and innocent girl and capture snapshots of her life in various stages of undress. I resisted the urge to laugh manically. An innocent girl in Paris? Unheard of. All the girls here were cigarette-smoking, high-fashion tough broads.

I glanced out my wide windows. Although the setting sun had tinged the sky with a glorious orange, there was something about the mechanical shapes of buildings that still made the city seem cold.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, startling me. Only a handful of people were important enough to earn a spot on my short list of contacts. Checking the caller ID, I raised the phone to my ear and slid it open.

"Hello?"

It sounded like there was a riot in the background. "Hey, Edward, I have an opening tomorrow. Want to come?"

"What time?" It was a rather unnecessary question because Emmett always scheduled his openings at the same time.

"7:00. Can you make it?"

My hand found itself tangled in my unruly hair. "Don't I always?"

Emmett chuckled and hung up. He didn't like saying goodbye.

He was a sculptor known for his bizarre and often humorous sculptures of popular culture and women. We had met at another artist's opening. The exhibition itself had been unmemorable, disappointing to say the least, and Emmett and I had exchanged asides about the quality of the former master's recent pieces. We would often find ourselves at the same galleries at the same time and we quickly struck up a comradeship. He found my work morbidly interesting, and I could always use a laugh myself.

Emmett had since become one of my few friends. We could not be more different—he was a loud, perpetually happy artist that enjoyed the freedom of partying and drugs, and I was the introverted thinker of ten prone to sudden, sullen mood swings. It was common knowledge that when I became obsessed with a project, I did not eat or sleep, choosing instead to pace my studio and paint well into the night under the fluorescent lights until I deemed my work as good as it was going to get. I then proceeded to sleep for a full 24 hours.

On the other hand, Emmett enjoyed getting several projects in the works at the same time so he could pick and choose between which he felt inspired to do that particular day. His studio was messy to the extreme, littered with chisels and clay and glue residue; mine was pristine and bright with two piles in the corner, one for incomplete pieces and one for completed pieces. The incomplete pile was the larger one by far, featuring stack upon stack of canvases that did not deserve to see the light of day.

I spent the whole night watching the city lights, immersed in my thoughts. Absently, I flipped a lighter open, the flame lighting up the room briefly before going out. A package of cigarettes lay beside me. I opened them up, sniffing in the familiar pungency of tobacco. Was tonight to be the night of reminiscing?

I didn't smoke myself because my earliest memory of my father was him with a stern frown telling me, _Don't smoke; it's a stupid habit_. He himself was a smoker for a decade until my mother became pregnant with me. I would often find him sucking on a cigarette, but I never saw him light one. He was never without his nicotine gum.

Ironically, he and my mother were killed in a car accident with a transport truck driver transporting nicotine products. Whenever I wanted to remember, I would stick a cigarette in my mouth and suck on its smoky poison, closing my eyes, just remembering. Over time, I found little details like the sound of my mother's laugh or exactly how the wrinkles on my dad's face mapped out his life.

I stubbed the cigarette out, grinding it eve though it had never been lit, had never turned into ash. It made me feel better to be doing something tactile, creating or destroying with my hands.

I knew my mother would echo Carlisle's statements to find tenderness. She had always been worried about my quietness, my unwillingness to go out. I was home schooled for most of my life, and I graduated high school at 15 because I never wanted summer's off. I had several online degrees, but my only passion was painting. My mother never knew about the girl I once loved; only that afterwards I locked myself in my room, painting disturbing pictures of hearts and bleeding and death.

Carlisle was in many ways a father-like figure to me although he was only around a decade older. He and his wife Esme constantly invited me to dinner under the pretense of discussing my work, but we all knew that Esme thought I was too lonely in my studio by myself.

And perhaps it was true, but I had never found any comfort in being with other human beings. It made me feel awkward because I couldn't relate to them even if I should've been able to. Even among other tortured souls like myself, there was a certain feeling of displacement, of being an oddity.

The sun peaked over the horizon, staining the world with its insistent happiness. I retired to bed, not feeling tired yet, but drained emotionally. I didn't bother to change out of my paint-covered smock. After all, who was going to look at me?

--

Please review and tell me what you think--even if it's just a line long. I enjoy inflating my ego.

The next few chapters should be posted soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 2: Opening

I awoke to lengthening shadows with the words, tender, innocent, spinning in my head, trying to morph into an ideal girl that didn't exist. Checking my digital clock, I was astonished to see that it was so late already. I didn't normally sleep for more than eight hours at a time.

Scrambling, I quickly dug out an almost unwrinkled shirt and the first jeans my hands touched. I decided to forgo the shower, deciding Emmett would literally kill me if I was late. A quick look in my bathroom mirror assured me that my hair was impossible, and so I grabbed my keys and left.

Other than my studio, the Volvo was the only other place I felt safe in, away from prying eyes. The muted purr of its six cylinders greeted me. I sighed lovingly, caressing its leather seats, still in their original condition. I had bought the car with my first commissioned painting, the only time I'd spent money recklessly.

The gallery's parking lot had flooded onto the streets where men and women dressed in elegant clothing littered the steps. I idled by the curb, wondering how many people attending were Emmett's friends and how many were actual critics or art appreciators.

I breathed deeply through me nose, hoping to shake my irrational fear of strangers. Killing the engine, I got out slowly. Hesitantly, I moved toward the front doors where a young couple loitered. They stared at me curiously, but I couldn't bring myself to meet their eyes. I found myself slipping behind the cold façade I'd hid my true self in for too many years.

Emmett's boisterous laughter reached me before anything else. I felt myself getting pulled into a solid mass, patted roughly in the back, and finally being able to breathe when the person shoved me away.

"Edward! Good to see you again." Never mind that he'd seen me just two days ago on a much needed caffeine hunt. Naturally, his booming voice had caught the attention of the crowd. He winked, perhaps sensing my discomfort and relishing it. A newcomer entered and Emmett turned his attention to him. I melted into the wall.

The phone was by my ear in a second.

"Rosalie, can you please come here?" I gave her directions and shut my phone, praying she would come, that she would understand.

Carlisle had introduced me to Rosalie a few months ago. Then, I thought he was just doing his duty as my sponsor and mentor by finding me appropriate subject matter. Looking back, I understood now that it had been a ploy to help me find tenderness.

It was a futile effort. Rose was exactly the kind of model I wanted—sexy, demanding, unattainable. She had never modeled before, but she joked that being an artist's model sounded deliciously scandalous. I knew that at least half of the artistic community was convinced we were having a passionate affair.

Vixen Rosalie was supposed to be the subject of my series, but obviously Carlisle wanted to find a different model.

I watched as Rosalie's flash BMW screeched to a stop and she stepped out, the target of every man's lust. Her lips had been painted a bold red that on any other woman would've seemed tacky or overdone, but suited her perfectly. Her blonde hair was coiffed in luscious curls down her back, her dress flaunting her flawless body. Even I, nearly asexual in my habits, had to admit she was gorgeous.

Everyone stared as she walked towards me and planted a kiss on my cheek.

"Thanks for coming," I sighed.

She smirked. "Don't think I wouldn't have crashed anyways. I hear your friend is quite the looker. Is that him?"

I rolled my eyes. How typically Rosalie. And yet, she was my only friend of the fairer sex. Despite her ample sex appeal, despite the brains behind her beauty, she still remained unattainable. Maybe that was what drew us together—she could not be had, and I would not be had.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She stayed by my side—it was one of Rosalie's best traits: loyalty—even though I knew she longed to cross the room where Emmett stood, still oblivious to her presence. We made small talk. I told her about Carlisle's wishes and she understood that she would be out of a job.

"It doesn't bother me much. With this body, I can get me a job as a model almost anywhere," she laughed. I wished I had her confidence.

It was hard to believe that this woman had once considered me a romantic interest—she had a thing for artists, apparently. Something about their "tortured souls"—and had stuck by me as a friend. Rosalie knew that a great half of the world thought she was a conceited and stuck up snob, but in reality, she had a fear of becoming too close to someone. It took one to know one.

I was prattling for a while when I stopped mid-sentence, sensing her disinterest. I never saw her staring at Emmett, but I knew she was surreptitiously watching. I sighed, exasperated. "Come on. I'll introduce you."

She grabbed my arm, a smile fixated on her face. "No. I never seek anyone out. Besides, he's coming now."

I looked behind her and saw that Emmett was indeed making his way through the crowd, ditching his former companions. How did she see him coming with her back facing him?

"Edward, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" He leered at Rosalie who still wasn't looking at him.

"Rosalie, Emmett. Emmett, Rosalie." I waved my hand casually between them knowing that a more formal introduction wouldn't be necessary. I had a feeling he was just here to find out of Rosalie would feed his sexual appetite.

Rosalie winked at him. He blinked, dazzled. I choked back a laugh.

"So, Mr. Emmett, tell me about your art," Rosalie purred, sidling up to him.

He grinned slyly and slipped an arm around her waist. "I specialize in women…" I heard him say before they strolled away and were swallowed by the crowd. Their heads were already touching and I made a mental note to not seek them out for the next hour or so while they had fun copulating.

I wandered around the room, scrutinizing Emmett's new work. Everyone else was sipping champagne, chatting, forgetting that this was an art exhibition. I was filled with envy at how Emmett's subject matter was so diverse and yet unified by his unique sense of humour. Surely Carlisle never had to have a talk with Emmett about taking things in a new direction. I could grudgingly admit that his work far outstripped mine.

At a particularly breathtaking piece, the jealousy surged into a hot and mean monster that I couldn't swallow. How was it fair that Emmett had been blessed with rugged good looks, with creativity, with social skills when I lacked in everything? How could God or any other higher being have gifted one person with so much greatness when too many people were below average? True, Emmett had no ability to love, but that was by choice, not a bitter memory of a heart long gone.

It was petty of me to hate one of my few friends, and it made me question, was my spite and scorn the reason that no one could find it in them to love me back?

A glance backward told me that most people were paired off into couples. I saw a man tuck a strand of hair behind his girl's ear, the simple gesture so innocent but intimate that I had to tear my eyes away. Abruptly, my heart ached to find a filling for the void, to find the damn tenderness that Carlisle found in Esme, that my father had found in my mother. In that moment, I felt all my animosity of women and relationships fade away, filled with nothing but acute pain of my loneliness. The moment passed, and I was able to breathe again, and I buried myself once again in my resentment.

One person besides me appeared to be alone. Her head was bent, examining a bizarre sculpture that appeared to be constructed of straws and plastic bags. Her mahogany hair acted as a curtain to hide her face from me. She didn't seem to be experiencing any inner turmoil. It was then that I noticed her scrawling notes down on a pad of paper. I immediately lost interest. Members of the press were persistent at best, but most often persistently annoying.

I let me feet carry me around, all the while craning my neck to find someone I knew. There was Tyler Crowley, the well-known architect, but he was more of an acquaintance than an actual friend. Besides, he was a terrible conversationalist; even worse than me.

Where were Rosalie and Emmett? It had to have been an hour already. Nope; the phone obnoxiously blinked its white numbers at me, letting me know it was only eight. I was wasting my time here. Surely Emmett wouldn't blame me for leaving early. Still, it would be best to say goodbye.

I nearly hit the send button before remembering that Emmett was with Rosalie, which meant they were doing unmentionables and would not want to be interrupted. I slipped my phone back into my pocket.

Glancing up, I re-ascertained my position. My wandering feet had led me to a deserted hallway. I began pacing through the empty halls, my footsteps echoing loudly in the empty space. Every few minutes, I would stop to impatiently check my phone for the time. Minutes ticked by, not nearly as fast as I wished they would move.

Unexpectedly, I felt another body smash into mine, the scent of freesias captivating my senses before my arms tightened around her body automatically, saving her body from meeting the cold tiled floors.

--

Sorry about the double email. I'm still trying to figure out how to work this website...Drop me a line!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 3: Innocence

The girl was remarkably composed for a person who nearly had a collision with the eager floor. Her eyes briefly met mine before ducking down again, a beautiful rose colour staining her cheeks.

As a painter, I was so transfixed by the quick glance—the colours of her cheeks and those gorgeous deep chocolate eyes!—that I didn't notice that she'd stepped away from me. There was no doubt that I was checking out her body, and I also knew I probably wasn't being very subtle about it. Luckily for me, she was staring intently at the floor and so did not notice my ogling.

She was simply clad in a straight pencil skirt that was high-waisted and chic, but not particularly flashy. Her blouse was tucked in, her hair brushed to the side, revealing a creamy ivory throat that I had a strange urge to suck on. Her fingers fidgeted nervously with her notebook, and I remembered her from before. A critic. I took a step away.

I tuned in to hear her apologize again with slightly accented French. A foreign critic. Just my luck.

"It's not a problem. Don't worry about it," I assure her. All I could see was the top of her head. It frustrated me to no end that she was giving her shoes so much attention when she could be lavishing me with it.

Before I registered what I was doing, before I could make my hand stop, I was reaching beneath her chin, forcing her eyes to meet mine. I could feel the flush of her cheeks heating in embarrassment.

At second glance, this girl-woman was beautiful. Her eyelashes framed her stunning wide eyes that seemed childlike in their innocence, but mature in their haunting depth. Her nose was snubbed slightly and her luscious lips were parted. The soft tendrils framing her face gave her an overall look of soft femininity, all curves, no angles.

It surprised me when she yanked her chin back. Her eyes once again flirted with the floor and I was overcome with an urgent need to take her back to the Volvo and _force_ her to look at me with her doe eyes.

She was still babbling, not letting me get a word in edgewise. As melodious as her voice was, the sixth repetition of sorry still irritated to me. And then it occurred to me.

"How do you know my name?"

She blushed again and I vowed to find out if her flush would spread to her breasts. At any rate, the colour made her even more inviting, even more intoxicatingly beautiful.

"Unfortunately, I happen to be a huge fan. You're Edward Masen, the painter. When's your new series opening?"

"It's been postponed indefinitely." Her face dropped and I wished I had a better answer for the angel. "I need a model."

Her brow puckered in confusion. It was an endearing expression. "I thought Rosalie Hale was your model?"

"How do you know that?"

Her skin darkened again. "Wikipedia."

Surprisingly, I found myself laughing. "You shouldn't believe everything you read on the Internet…I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"It's Bella."

Bella. Beautiful. Perfect. "Bella…" I savoured the taste of her name on my tongue. It was better than her freesia scent. "Wikipedia was right this time."

"It nearly always is. I don't understand all the flack they get from teachers. Wikipedia has standards and sources! What could be better?"

Teachers. So she went to the nearby university? "You're a student?"

Her head ducked and I resisted the temptation to tuck her hair behind her ear to better see her face. "Yes. I'm majoring in English with a minor in Art History. I want to be a teacher."

"Why did you come to Paris to major in English?" I folded my arms across my chest, leaning on the wall slightly. She mimicked my movements.

Bella laughed airily. "It wasn't the wisest move, was it? But I was planning to major in Art History. I had to change my major halfway through university because I found Shakespeare that much more fascinating than Picasso."

"So you ever feel displaced?" Like me?

"Displaced?" She drew the word out slowly, her head cocking to the side. "I'm not sure if I understand what you're trying to get at."

I scuffed my shoe on the ground. "You're obviously not Parisian…"

Bella shoved me lightly on the shoulder that wasn't pressed against the wall. I nearly stumbled backwards at the light contact. It burned slightly where she'd touched me, but I would gladly scorch under her intense chocolate gaze for a thousand more casual touches.

"Are you implying that my French is not up to par?" I could tell from her pout that she was teasing me.

"Not at all. Your French is quite good. But you're different than all the girls in Paris."

In that moment, an electric charge seemed to pass through us, igniting my senses and serving to magnify Bella's unusual beauty. She was not flirtatiously sensual, nor bold and fashionable, but she had about her an ethereal beauty that subtly shown through her luminous skin.

Even when I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, I could not tear my eyes away from hers. They were so soft, almost like a visual caress.

"Bella?" a distinctly masculine voice called out.

Bella's head immediately snapped in the intruder's direction. I was pleased to note that her breath came out in uneven gasps and wheezes.

"Yes?" she answered.

A tall blonde man rounded the corner and strode up to her, not even bothering to spare me a glance. It surprised me at how strong the bitter taste of jealousy was in my mouth.

"Alice is complaining of a headache. Something about toxic paint fumes. Do you mind?" I noticed he spoke in unaccented American English. He was most likely an old friend of Bella's, which most likely meant that she herself was American. Interesting.

"Oh. No, of course not. You guys go ahead. I have to get my bag from the lady at the front. I'll meet you by the car."

He nodded and walked away. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. Masen." It was such a generic and polite thing to say that I found myself wondering if she really meant it. It was pointless for me to be dissecting our former conversation, examining her sentence structure for a glimmer of true emotion, but I was doing so just the same.

"Call me Edward."

Bella smiled uncertainly. "Alright then, Edward."

Turning away, she took not ten steps until I called for her to stop. _You have perfectly noble intentions_, I reasoned with myself. _How many times have you described her as innocent in your thoughts? Don't think about the not-so-innocent thoughts you have when she walks…The point is, maybe she's Carlisle's ideal girl._

"Bella, could I meet you for coffee tomorrow?"

Her body half-twisted towards me, her form casting a striking silhouette on the wall. The dim lighting did not allow me to see her face, but I could imagine her in my mind, chewing on her lower lip.

"Okay."

Her reluctance did nothing to boost my confidence. I tried to compensate by being overly enthusiastic. "Great. How about tomorrow at the Sleeping Bean? Does two o'clock work for you?" I winced slightly. Even to my own ears, I sounded full of fake cheer.

"I have class then. What about four?"

I was elated that she was making time in her schedule for me. I nodded emphatically. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I followed her tantalizing hips down the hallway until she turned the corner.

--

I wish I had a picture of what Bella's wearing in this chapter...It's inspired from a skirt/blouse combo that my friend's sister designed and made (!!) by herself. It's absolutely gorgeous. There's a picture of my friend modeling it somewhere on the web (for her portfolio for university. She's going into fashion). I wish I had sewing skills...

Thank you for all your reviews thus far! I always reply to every single one...so drop me a line, be it question, comment, grammar fixage, etc.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 4: Caffeine

It was 4:05 and there was still no sign of Bella. She had stuck me as the punctual kind. I drummed my fingers on the table top, my black coffee standing untouched before me. I wished for the thousandth time that I'd asked Bella for her number. At least that way, she wouldn't be able to evade me as easily.

When it was a quarter past, I knew I'd been stood up. Dropping a few coins on the table, I stood up, grabbing my still untouched coffee.

The bell sounded then, announcing the arrival of a customer, and my head reflexively turned to the door. I saw Bella dart inside, her face flushed, laden down with a heavy bag. She spotted me immediately and dragged her things over to where I stood, plopping down ungracefully into a cushy seat.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. I had to clarify my research topic with my professor and missed the first bus. It looks like I caught you just as you were about to leave."

I sat down, waving her apologies away. Just by being here, she had done more than I'd expected. "What class did you just have?" I asked her English.

"Painters of the 21st century," she sighed, propping her chin on her elbows. Her bottomless eyes probed mine.

"And what's your topic?"

Her eyes dropped to the table and she was soon wearing my favourite colour in her cheeks. "Oh, just some artist in Paris…"

The waitress chose that moment to appear at our table. Bella looked grateful for the interruption. Did she really think she was going to get off that easily?

"Et pour toi, Bella, le meme chose?"

"Oui. Merci beaucoup."

I waited until the waitress walked away before leaning closer to Bella. She beat me to the punch.

"It's so nice to be speaking English. I almost feel like I'm going to forget one day. You have no idea how terrible it sit in an English class and listen to other people butchering your native language. I don't understand how the French can drop in so many z's in a perfectly legit sentence."

"But then again, a greater half of the British think that Americans are butchers of the English language," I countered.

She dipped her head. "Touché."

"Exactly. Let me ask again: who is the artist you're researching? They might be an acquaintance, you know. I'm not adverse to the idea of airing all their dirty laundry."

Bella giggled nervously and hid behind her hand. I pried them gently off her face and she peaked at me with her glorious eyes.

"Please tell me?"

Her eyes glazed over slightly before snapping back into focus. "It's you, actually," she mumbled.

I leaned back in my seat, the warm coffee cradled in my hands, absurdly satisfied that the angel sitting in front of me deemed my art important enough to be thoroughly studied. "That's flattering."

She shrugged. Her order was deposited in front of her and she took a long sip from the straw, the smooth muscles of her throat moving rhythmically. She looked up at me from under her eyelashes. "I was hoping you'd give me some insight on your work, actually."

I gulped. Was I just imagining the insinuation behind that comment? "Of course…but I have a favour to ask of you."

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. The drink was pushed to the side, forgotten, as Bella leaned forward, wrapping a hand around her slender neck. "You're bargaining with me?"

I smiled angelically. "I'll tell you my conditions and you can decide whether or not you find it a fair trade. I'm letting you know now that when you're interviewing me, you can ask anything, professional or otherwise. No rules."

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "I need a good mark on this paper, so I'll probably go along with any asinine offer you come up with. What's your proposal?"

"I'd rather not tell you here. Can we go to my studio?"

She bit her lip hesitantly. "I don't know…" she began. I never got to hear her full rejection; her cell phone began belting Clair de Lune as she, turning scarlet, dove for her overstuffed large purse.

"Hello?" Bella apologized for the interruption with her eyes. "I'm having coffee with someone." This was punctuated by a blush. "No, Alice, it's not like that." Her eyes darted to me and back. She tilted herself away from me, one hand cupping her ancient and bulky phone and the other near her head in an attempt to block out the background noise from the café.

"What? No. Fine, how about tomorrow? Alright. Bye then."

I waited patiently as she stowed away the cell phone.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly, running her fingers through that curtain of hair. "That was my best friend. She's visiting from New York this week. Her and her boyfriend—or fiancé, rather. You met him the other night."

I nodded in recognition. "The blond." The one I was irrationally jealous of at the time.

"Jasper," she confirmed. "Alice claims she misses me, but I think she's really here for fashion week. All she wants to do is shop." Bella shuddered.

I grinned at her endearing response although I secretly envied her many friendships. Then again, with her charm, how could anyone possibly resist?

"You don't like shopping?" How odd. Wasn't that the defining element of women—ability to spend money on inane and useless purchases?

"I don't like spending money," she corrected.

The more I learned, the more intrigued I became. "And why is that?"

Her eyes were unbearably beautiful, always filled with kindness and understanding. "I'm a student. I'd rather eat."

What was with this woman and her crazy ability to be able to make me laugh?

"I know how you feel. I'm an artist. I thrive on peanut butter sandwiches."

Bella's tinkling laugh surrounded me like a lover's caress. I would gladly asphyxiate in it, drowning in its perfection.

I noticed how close I was to her, how my lips were involuntarily curved into a lopsided smile. I sat up in my chair, smiling a little wider to soften my sudden and apparent rejection. Bella returned my gaze evenly, a demure smile tracing her soft lips.

"Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes," she replied immediately, jumping onto her feet. She bent down to retrieve her bag, not knowing it was already on my shoulder.

"What are you carrying in here?" I grunted. "Lead paint?"

Bella giggled at the sight of me carrying the oversized purse. "Textbooks. Why do you think I'm so short? The weight of it increases gravity's pull on me. I swear I'm shrinking."

"Well," I replied lightly, "if you ever want to see the world from the height most people do, you can always sit on my shoulders."

And with a glare, she exited. I, feeling lighter than I had in years, followed.

--

I know some of you are hoping for a little more action, but I warn you now, none of that is going to happen anytime soon. Sorry to disappoint.

On another hand, I hope my French isn't too atrocious--it's been years! If anyone wants to make any corrections or ask any questions or whatever, leave me a review! I totally live off of them...


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm so sorry this chapter has been a long time coming...I'll make it up to you, I promise!  
**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 5: Acceptance

"Wow," was all Bella said. I closed the door behind me and joined her by my glass wall that faced the Seine, surrounded by dots of buildings and cars.

"It's not much," I shrugged. "I'm lucky Carlisle is such a great scout."

"Carlisle?" She spun around to face me, a strange expression twisting her face. "Carlisle Cullen? The doctor?"

I was a little wary of her reaction. What was it that was bothering her? Was he an enemy of the family? Ex-lover? I shoved the last thought out of my mind.

"I don't know what he does for a living, but there aren't too many Carlisle Cullens in the world. Why do you ask?"

Bella's face scrunched up in distaste. "I didn't know he was an arts sponsor. I was just wondering because I know him and the rest of the staff at the hospital on first name basis."

I quirked an eyebrow. "You're not dying of a terminal disease, are you?" If she was, she made dying look good.

Bella rolled her eyes. "You do remember the staircase?"

I snickered at a very recent memory of Bella, walking ahead of me on the stairs, somehow tripping backwards. Thankfully, I had grabbed onto the rail or we would have met our imminent death tumbling down the stairs.

"If clumsiness was a disease, you'd have the worst case I've ever seen."

Bella's face screwed up again and I almost wanted to tell her to stop. It was a shame to ruin that perfect face the same way it would be an abomination to tear a Da Vinci in half.

She faced the wall again, the pale light of the waning sun warming up her features. Her lips gracefully, perhaps the only thing she could do gracefully, curved upward into a gentle smile. I shoved my hands in my pocket, the inner artist in me imagining painting her with careful strokes of ivory and pale yellow. Her face was so peaceful in the moment, I couldn't bring myself to spoil it with my ridiculous proposal.

Her head turned towards me. "Weren't you going to ask me something?" Bella teased.

I started, immediately covering it up with a businesslike walk to one corner. "Indeed. Come here, Bella. I wanted to show you a bit of my next exhibit, free of charge." I beckoned for her to follow as I led her to my neatly stacked finished pile. Lining a few of my more daring pieces of Rosalie against the wall, I stepped back, appraising her reaction rather than look at my paintings.

As the silence stretched on longer, I broke into a nervous sweat. Bella was the first of the public to see my newest series. What if she didn't like it? After all, if she liked it, why would she keep it silent?

Bella's face gave nothing away. For several minutes, she stood there silently in her blue blouse, not a single emotion marring her sweet face. When I'd sweated through my white button up, I cleared my throat meaningfully. Bella's eyes snapped to mine. I took a deep breath, preparing myself surely for the cutting words to come.

"I love it, Edward," she breathed, her face lit up in exultant excitement. I felt my heart pound in response.

"Honestly?" I couldn't wrap my head around it. I felt giddier than a greedy schoolboy on Halloween.

"Yes," she chuckled, seemingly amused by my overjoyed reaction. "It's everything great art should be—scandalously reverent, but with an unsettling quality that holds the eye."

I grinned appreciatively. "But if you were to criticize one thing, what would you condemn me for?"

Bella stared intently at my paintings of Rosalie, examining them from all angles. Finally, she spoke. "They're all very…" she seemed to be fishing for the right word, "dominatrix." Bella's statement was punctuated by a blush.

"Yeah, that's what Carlisle said too," I murmured, more to myself than Bella. Perhaps I was arrogant to antagonize Carlisle for seeing faults that actually did exist.

"Really?" she smirked. "Imagine the great Carlisle Cullen and I, the lowly student, sharing the same opinion."

I ignored the quip. "This is where my proposal comes in." I couldn't bring myself to look at her eyes, focusing instead on her delicious mouth. It twisted, one corner getting bitten by teeth that peeked out from between her pink lips.

"I don't understand." Confusion: that's what the lip biting meant. I filed the information away for future analysis. For now, I was relieved to be receiving confusion instead of rejection. Confusion that was almost curious.

"Carlisle and you are of the same mind—my subject matter is too similar, contrast is needed, without the sour the sweet wouldn't taste. That's where you come in. You're new and you've got a different look than Rosalie."

"You want me to be your model?" Bella appeared to be in disbelief, her brows crinkled in the apparent absurdity of the question.

I sighed dramatically. "Must I be so explicit? I want you, Bella, oh lowly student, to be my model."

When Bella didn't reply but continued to wear an expression of shock, I took it as a chance to continue speaking. "Of course, I'll be very accommodating to the fact that you're a student, and you will be paid for your services."

"I'm sorry, Edward," Bella said, cutting in. Her eyes blazed with the fury of a thousand fiery suns, and I would be lying if I said it wasn't frightening. "I'm not sure exactly what kind of girl you take me for, but I don't model, for anyone, and especially not in such racy poses. Thank you."

I never once thought that she would turn me away because she suspected I had less than noble intentions. For a brief moment, I contemplated telling her about my near asexuality, but decided it wouldn't help matters. Bella shouldn't be made to care about a betrayal that happened so many years ago.

I thought the most logical reason Bella wouldn't want to be my model was because she'd heard things about me, things that were along the lines of my being difficult to work with and childish in temper. It was well known in the art community that I was standoffish; most took my coldness for arrogance rather than a shield in which I enclosed myself in to be safe.

So lost was I in my thoughts that Bella had already turned away to leave. Quickly, unwilling to let this intriguing woman walk out of my life, I restrained her with a hand to the shoulder. Bella stiffened visibly, but did not shake me off.

"I promise you, Bella, that you will never be completely nude in my studio. I'm trying for a new mood—one of innocence. I wouldn't force you into anything you feel uncomfortable doing."

For a long time, we stood there, my hand still pressed down on her shoulder. I didn't try to hide behind the level gaze I usually reserved for moments like this. I kept my face wide open, readable. I wanted Bella to know I could be trusted. Her eyes probed mine, never revealing her own thoughts even though emotions would occasionally flash, too fast for me to decipher. What she found in my eyes must have shown a degree of sincerity, for Bella relaxed and smiled a heartbreakingly beautiful smile.

"When can I start?"

--

I know, I know. Impossibly short. But I should be able to update by tomorrow morning. Thank God for the extra hour.

On another note, how did everyone's Halloween go? Mine would've been great, except kids are such wimps. I spent all this effort hauling my huge subwoofer up to my porch, hiding all the cables/wires, and you know what I get? Scared twelve year olds RUNNING THE OTHER WAY! In my day, we stuck it out. Made me so angry...Next year, I want something that pops out of a coffin to throw candy at the kids. Does anyone know where to get one?


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 6: Inexperienced

Nothing in all my years of study could have prepared me for the sight that lay before me. Bella was scantily clad in a matching set of deep blue lace underwear better suited for lovers than inexperienced artists. I frankly didn't think that Bella with her long hair and shy smile would own such provocative clothing, but I was learning that she was full of surprises. Now she stood, hands on her hips, chewing her lips nervously as she pretended to search through her closet as if finding something to wear.

My hand shook, the paint smearing on my canvas in varying degrees of thickness and smoothness. I was putting in blocks of solid base colours that represented Bella, the closet doors, the floor, but I kept on getting distracted by Bella's incandescently creamy flesh.

"Is this all right?" Bella asked through her clamped lips. Her lips twitched.

"It's perfect, Bella. Just relax." If only I could tell my hand the same thing. As long as I concentrated on my task, my hand would serve me well, but whenever I looked up to check the lighting…

A dark ugly smudge smeared itself where Bella's head should've been. My breathing became laboured and I closed my eyes momentarily, cursing my photogenic memory. It did not help that for the past week or so, I'd been imagining Bella's luminescent eyes gazing up at me, her lips between her teeth. Sometimes, in my mind, Bella was straddling me with hooded eyes, and sometimes, she remained innocent, but still alluring. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the inappropriate and all-too-tempting images.

"Are you all right?" Innocent as always, Bella was oblivious to my growing discomfort.

"I'm fine," I croaked. J_ust fantasizing about you, like usual. No need to worry._

As soon as I'd laid the basic foundation of colours, I booked it out of Bella's room. A flash of hurt seemed to cross her face before I rounded the corner and was gone.

It was sick of me to think of Bella in that way, but I couldn't help but get excited at the prospect of spending my time detailing the little scraps of lace that covered Bella's beautiful body.

--

A week later, I was setting up my easel and mixing paints as Bella sat around in her terrycloth robe.

"What are you painting today?"

Absentmindedly, I added more brown to the cherrywood colour I was mixing for her closet. It was actually constructed of veneer in a honey oak tint, but I had artistic license, didn't I? And besides, it would set off Bella's pale skin nicely.

"The furniture, mostly. The blends of your dresser, your closet, etc. I'll be adding the details at some later time."

"Then I don't really need to be here, do I?"

I looked at her, surprised. "Do you not want to be here?"

She shrugged her thin shoulders, her arms still crossed. "It's just awkward having you stare at me so intensely."

I immediately tried to console her. "Don't worry. I've seen many naked women before." _Albeit, none as beautiful as you._ I smiled timidly at her.

"Therein lies the problem," Bella sighed.

My brows furrowed, not understanding her cryptic remark. She would only smile tranquilly at my curious gaze.

"Alright," she said, the sinewy muscles of her calves pulling taut as she stood up. "I'm ready."

The robe dropped to the ground and she moved closer to the closet, squaring her shoulders in preparation to hold the pose for a few hours. Although I had already long memorized the sigh before me, I still snuck the occasional peep. Time and time again, her luscious curves and pouty lips put my mind on its one track: Bella, Bella, Bella…

She was subconsciously shifting her weight from foot to foot, and I admired the way her skin would flex and move in the light.

"You know, if you're tired of holding the pose, you can sit down and rest for a bit. I am just doing the background, after all."

Bella smiled thankfully at me. She crouched down by the mini fridge beside her bed, pulling open the door. From where I sat, I could feel the frigid air breeze by my ankle. Even the sickly yellow light that spilled couldn't mar Bella's soft features.

"Do you want a drink?"

"Not unless you have French wine older than I am." I kept my eyes firmly fixated on my canvas to spare myself the embarrassment of getting caught staring at Bella's behind as she retrieved a bottle of spring water.

"Oh. No, I'm sorry. I don't have any wine at all."

I put down my brush, and began cleaning it. "How old are you, Bella?" The frustration leaked into my voice. What kind of person was I to become involved with a girl I didn't know anything about?

"I'm in my last year of university. I'll be graduating this summer. Does that tell you anything?"

Most likely 22 then. Thank God she wasn't a minor—I was pretty sure most of the things I wanted to do with her would not bide well in the eyes of the public if she was too young. Then again, I didn't think it would bide well even though she was legal.

"Hmmm." My answer was vague, noncommittal.

"Why? Do I look that old?" My eyes flickered to her. I instantly regretted it. My parents raised me to be a gentleman. I repeated that to myself as the image of Bella, hands on her hips, head cocked coquettishly, burned itself into my memory. In moments like this, my sexual repression came at me full force and I wished for an outlet for my lust.

"No," I muttered.

Wood scraped against wood. I sensed rather than saw Bella fold herself sinuously on the hard wooden-backed chair she dragged beside me. From the corner of my eyes, I could see that she was smiling serenely at my painting, somehow managing to look stunning even without makeup and with undone hair. My hand stilled.

"You haven't told me anything about yourself, Edward. Do you remember our agreement?" Her voice was soft and lilting; I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed how melodious it was until now.

She was gazing at me expectantly, her lips still curved in that gentle smile, but all I could think about was Bella being within an arm's distance, wearing nothing but underwear. I tried valiantly not to stare at Bella's cleavage, but failed, drawn to its defined shadow.

"I remember," I replied faintly, my voice coming out a little deeper than usual. I cleared my throat. "There's not much to know. I came to Paris a few years ago, penniless and determined. I was lucky enough to have Carlisle discover me in some alley, and since, he's been my sponsor. The first painting I sold was spent my Volvo. Since then, it's all been going to the bank, with the occasional splurge on expensive wine."

Momentarily, the room was still, thick with silence. I chanced a look at Bella and saw her tongue snake out, moistening her lips. I clenched my fists together, hard, so that my nails dug into the heel of my palm. The pain did not distract me as I hoped it would. I cleared my throat loudly.

"That colour is lovely on you, Bella," I said randomly, no knowing how to break through the tension in the air. I winced almost immediately afterwards. Did I really just tell her how good she looked in her lingerie?

Her cheeks flushed pink as she took my compliment as a dismissal. She moved away to resume her pose and I, breathing at last, mixed my paints together furiously.

--

I know, I know...still too short. What can I say? I've had a recent bout of constipation from my usual flow of verbal diarrhea...But I'll try to update by midweek. Hopefully. I don't know. Wanna review anyways? :)


	7. Chapter 7

**It's been forever, I know. But I have a legit excuse...**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 7: Saturdays

I let myself in, knowing that Bella always unlocked the door before I came. Whistling quietly, I walked through the dark halls, feeling uncharacteristically happy due to the mellow sun and blue sky. Admittedly, bad weather was more interesting to paint, but no one could resist a bout of sunshine.

"Hello," Bella said breathlessly to me as I walked in. I responded to her beaming face with a dazzling grin of my own.

"Hello." We stood stupidly in the hall for a few more moments, each savouring the sweetness that was meeting someone again. "How are you today?"

And she, typical Bella, bowed her head in response, her blush spreading to her scalp. "I'm better now." She smiled up at me and my heart filled with a sort of warmth even the sun could not rival.

"Good." What else more was there to say?

I set up quickly, my arms going through the familiar motions of putting up my easel. Bella waited patiently in her terrycloth robe, her lips curved upwards dreamily. I stared at her far more than her gaze wandered to me.

"It's such a beautiful day." I hated resorting to such mundane topics, but there was no other way to force Bella to look at me.

"It is." Her head didn't turn.

I exhaled, frustrated. "Do you have any plans for today?"

From what I could see of her face, she grimaced. Unexpectedly, she stood, maneuvering her way to find herself beside my easel. A single finger reached out to touch the wood panels of her closet, stopping an inch away from the wet paint.

"It looks so real." Her voice was in awe.

I couldn't stop the pride that shot through my veins, and neither did I want to. "Have you ever done any oil painting?"

Bella's head shook, her hair whipping me lightly in the face. I breathed in her strawberry scent. She moved to her position in front of the closet. I picked up my brush reluctantly.

"Not much. I did an oil miniature in high school, but it wasn't very successful. You're forgetting I lived in a small town—our school didn't have the proper ventilation to use vast amounts of turpentine. My teacher feared for her health as it was." She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Not all of us went to prestigious art schools in Chicago."

I smirked at the jab. "I guess not. But at least you must have done some more work with oils in university."

Her head was already shaking before I finished speaking. "You forget I'm majoring in Art History," she reminded me. "I didn't take many actual art courses because I discovered the hard way that I have no artistic skills myself, but I have a good eye."

"So what do you enjoy doing then? Sculpting? Animation?"

Bella snorted. I had to hide a grin. "God, no. If you've ever seen my computer, you know that the only thing I can actually work is a word processor, so anything involving computer programs are out."

I bristled with indignation. "Not all animation is done using computer programs and CGI."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Okay, okay. I fully appreciate stop motion animation, okay? I love Tim Burton, I've watched Nightmare Before Christmas more times than I have fingers, I can sing every song in Corpse Bride. The point is, I don't do animation. And I most definitely don't sculpt. I can almost make clay sculptures, but anything that involves reduction or relief carving, I'm hopeless."

I rolled my eyes. "Then what are you good at?"

Bella took a deep breath, drawing herself to her full height. "Pastels. What can I say? I enjoy blending and tones and using my fingers. And the smell of hairspray…"

I chuckled. "You're very good. You've almost completely distracted me. But you never did answer my question. Are you going out today?"

She smiled slyly at me. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think this was a prelude to another question that begins with 'Would you like to…'"

A chuckle escaped before I could harness it. "Honestly, I just feel bad that you have to spend all day cooped up with me."

"No, I'm not planning on going out today." She hesitated and I witnessed the return of Shy Bella. "But next week, can we switch from Saturday to Sunday? If it's alright with you, of course."

"Of course," I repeated. "Sometimes I forget you have a social life." I grinned apologetically at Bella, almost unaffected by her presence. Granted, my hand still wobbled a bit, but it was considerably better than an hour ago when I'd just arrived. I was desensitizing myself.

She returned my smile, but I could only see half of it from where I sat. "Is Alice dragging you out shopping again?"

"No, Alice went back to New York." Even I, social leper, could hear the sadness in her voice. "But she's thinking about moving here. We want to rent an apartment together. You should meet her—I think you two would get along well. She's the perfect remedy to your moodiness."

"I'm not too stereotypically 'tortured artist', am I?"

Bella laughed and I much appreciated the genuineness in the sound. She made me feel as if I were funny. "No, you're perfect."

Her last statement made me smile widely. "Then what are you doing on Saturday? Hot date?"

Bella's blush told me everything. It _was_ a hot date. I suddenly felt a huge urge to throw up.

She seemed very uncomfortable and I knew she'd be toying with her clothing—innocently, of course—if she was wearing enough. "It's just a guy in my class. He's been really sweet about lending notes for the classes I miss and he really understands a lot of concepts. He can probably explain them better than my Profs can."

I tasted bitterness on the back of my tongue. I didn't want to hear her worship her hero boyfriend. I didn't want him to be able to make her laugh, to catch her when she fell. It was wrong of me to direct my anger towards Bella, but all my pent up frustration was let out. I didn't speak to Bella for the rest of the session unless it was to bark out a command to tell her to stop fidgeting. Each time she would obey obediently, but with a confused expression, and I hated her all the more for it.

--

Saturday—my favourite day of the week. Today, I'd get out of my studio, get away from my dreams and nightmares of Bella---Bella's legs, Bella's arms, Bella's glorious breasts—and see the real thing. I whistled happily to myself as I made coffee, my first caffeine fix of many to come.

As I was eyeing my painting, I remembered. Bella had cancelled on me for some college hotshot. At this moment, she could be with him at the Louvre, or maybe downtown, walking, talking, holding hands. I groaned to myself.

I sat with caffeine fix number seven of the day, my leg jittering on the floor from nerves or excess stimulant. I honestly didn't know. I wished that I'd asked Bella for her cell phone number, I wished she would call me, I wished _I_ was there instead of him, I wished I wished I wished.

Slideshow after slideshow ran through my head, fueled by my overactive imagination. Bella laughing at something he said, Bella blushing shyly at me, her cheeks stained my favourite pink. Bella, her arms wound around him, her face blissfully happy. Bella kissing him passionately, her tongue slipping into his mouth, her legs wrapped securely around his waist in an attempt to bring him closer. Bella whispering to him what she would never be able to give me; her love, her life.

I paced around the room. I did sit-ups. I blasted my music at its loudest volume when my eardrums nearly bled, and still the babble inside my head wouldn't shut up.

I picked up my pen, doodled on a scrap piece of paper. When the lines and squiggles began shaping into Bella's lips, her expressive eyes, I balled the sheet, aimed it at the trashcan. I missed.

I chewed on the ends of my crappy paintbrushes, sucked through an entire pack of cigarettes. I talked to myself, I forced myself to laugh. Everything sounded too contrived.

I wanted to run, to fly, but where was there room for me to take off? Where was my destination? Nowhere; just Bella.

As I lay on the cold floor, I despised myself more and more. What kind of sick monster would want a beautiful angel all to himself if he had no capability to love her, treasure her, the way she deserved? What kind of monster would think again and again about Bella in her little scraps of fabric, Bella and her tongue, while Bella was pledged to another man?

I was piteous. Bella was humouring me by being my model. She was only doing it, a voice whispered, to get a good mark and graduate, not because she cared about me, and who could blame her? Every session, she learned more about me—my process, my concepts, my inspiration, my techniques. No verbal questioning was required. From Bella, I learned more than could be absorbed through actions than through words.

The cars trickled by my studio, many stories below. I lay awake, flicking the cigarette lighter, burning my retinas with its bright but brief flame. When my watch read three in the morning, I dragged myself to the attached bathroom, knocked a few sleeping pills into my cupped palm and chased them with a gulp of my favourite wine. Slowly, painstaking, sleep took me for its own.

--

I had this chapter typed up for Wednesday, but, of course, my Internet just shut down. I'm not even kidding. I always check my email first and I just made it in and the Internet stopped working. Thursday and Friday it worked sporadically and now (FINALLY) it seems to have stabilized...

Tomorrow, I'll (probably) update again. But I know that if you review, I'll update THAT much faster...


	8. Chapter 8

**As promised...This chapter is a bit multiple personality disorder-ish...It goes from being serious to being playful and then the less innocent...**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 8: Mess

I let myself in, as per usual, noting that there was no one there to greet me. Not that I expected there to be someone—knowing my luck, Bella was probably still sleeping in her bed, thoroughly hung over. I was proved wrong shortly when she suddenly appeared at her doorway, dressed in nothing but her robe.

Sunlight streamed through her large window, and I immediately began setting up. I avoided looking too closely at Bella in fear that she would be even more beautiful than the last time I saw her.

"Excuse the mess. I had a little what-to-wear crisis yesterday."

My throat closed up, but I kept my head down, meticulously taking out and placing all fifty-three of my brushes side by side. I envied the curtain of hair that Bella could always hide behind.

"And how was your date?" I prayed that Bella did not hear the slight undercurrent of pain pulsing beneath my last word.

"Surprisingly, it was a lot of fun. We went to the gallery opening down the street. You know, the one that was nearly destroyed in the fire last year? They restored the building and it looks exquisite. Lunch was at a really low-key retro restaurant with jukeboxes and a menu of only fried foods. Oh, and they had a lot of Elvis posters. Afterwards, we went to the park."

Why did she have to sound so damn happy? I smiled forcefully down at my paints. "And what did you do at the park?"

For a long time, I heard nothing but silence. Breaking my own policy, I glanced up to see Bella blushing furiously.

_Please lie to me, please lie to me. I don't want to hear about what a fabulous kisser he is. _"We talked, had ice cream. It was a gorgeous day yesterday."

I had nothing to say to that. Momentarily, the conversation lay forgotten, but I had a hunch it would be haunting me in dreams to come. It was an awkward topic, for both of us.

The next time I dared to peek above my canvas, Bella was already posing, ready to go. I mixed colours quickly, producing a buttery cream shade that exactly matched the paleness of Bella's skin.

"Tell me about yourself, Edward?"

I wasn't sure I heard correctly. "Pardon?"

"You know so much about me, but I hardly know anything about you." Her eyes did not seek mine out.

"That's ridiculous. I don't know anything about your family," I teased lightly.

Bella frowned slightly, her lips tightening. "Maybe not, but I tell you about Alice, about Angela. But that's irrelevant. You're trying to change the subject."

I sighed in defeat, shaking my head in a way that my hair flopped around. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Your family, your childhood; anything that made you the man you are today."

I finished Bella's silhouette. Cleaning my brush carefully, I answered, "I had a wonderful childhood. My parents were loving and caring, although I did hate them at the time for forcing me to practice my piano every day. But they always supported my dreams, even when I told them I wanted to be a painter, which we both know is not the dream parents usually envision for their child. My father was lawyer—we were always well off. I think he expected me to follow in his footsteps."

She'd picked up on the past tense. "Were?"

When I spoke next, my voice was quiet, to hide any emotion. "They died a few years ago in a car crash while coming over to visit me. I was being overdramatic and petulant. I insisted they come to my first exhibit the day it opened, despite the fact that there was a storm that night. Their car was hit by a transport truck that had hit the ice wrong. They died instantly." I cleared my throat in an attempt to keep myself in the present. "That night has always been bittersweet for me."

I thought I'd done a good job at concealing my true emotions, but Bella knew me better. Her eyes scrutinized my face, observing far more than I was planning to reveal.

"It wasn't your fault," she told me soothingly. I had heard the same words spoken dozens of times before, but never had anyone said it with such obvious conviction. "You shouldn't feel guilty. Your parents were eager to see your exhibit. They must have been very proud. You're a gifted artist, Edward."

I nodded, not exactly agreeing with her, but knowing it was how I should answer. "Art is mostly luck. I was lucky that Carlisle was lost in the city and happened to wander down the little alley where I was trying to barter off my work."

"But, it was your skill and your talent that spoke to him," Bella reminded me.

The moment was quickly becoming too personal, too intimate. Strangely enough, I wanted Bella to know everything about me, but it was still difficult for me to open up and talk about my life.

I studied my drawing. Despite the goddess it featured, despite the humorous situation, there was something about it that was too formal, too posed. My brow began to crinkle.

"What's wrong?"

Bella's voice coming from behind startled me. I made the mistake of glimpsing over my shoulder at her. She was too dazzling, and up close she was even more impossibly gorgeous. It took much effort to tear my eyes away.

"It looks stiff," she noted.

I exhaled sharply through my nose. "I know," I sighed glumly. "Any suggestions?"

With my eyes firmly glued to the canvas, I felt rather than saw her excitement. "Actually, yes."

A streak clad in blue lace tripped her way into my line of vision and began haphazardly throwing clothes all over the room. A flash of green, a shower of black. I couldn't keep up with the multitude of colours flying around my head.

"What are you doing?" I asked her, bewildered. I was clutching my still-dirty brush in one hand, my other arm half-raised in defence.

Maybe Bella was high on the turpentine fumes. I gave the bottle a worried glance.

"I'm returning my room to its original state," she called back.

And I understood. With Bella posing in her sea of tossed clothes, it would seem as though she'd torn through her closet in search for the perfect outfit, instead of merely deliberating. Deliberation was far too calm for such a vivacious sex.

I grinned widely. "You're a genius, Bella."

"Oh, I know."

I leaned back, watching contentedly as more clothes were flung around me. I had to duck several times in order to avoid a thrashing from a vicious blazer with many shining buttons and several pairs of jeans.

A bright jewel toned green bra hung itself on one corner of my canvas. I gingerly flicked it off, checking to make sure no oil paint was marred during the bra's uncalled-for attack. "Watch where you're chucking your underwear!"

"Sorry," she giggled.

I smiled at her obviously insincere answer. I witness more clothing being tossed around. How much did this woman spend for retail therapy? Ducking once again, I called, "How do you still have clothes to throw?"

"Alice!" she shouted.

My eyes were drawn to something turquoise that flew and landed near my foot. It was a thong. And not just any thong; it was _Bella's_ thong. And what a beautiful scrap of satin it was. I could just picture Bella in the morning after a shower, steam seeping into her bedroom when she opened the door. She'd be in nothing but a wonderfully short towel that ended nowhere near mid thigh. Bella would rifle through her heaps of clothing, picking out her underwear—in this case, the turquoise thong—and slide it up her long, smooth legs…

I surreptitiously nudged the thong with my foot, scooping it up when I was sure Bella wasn't looking. She turned around, catching the last of my movements, and gave me a quizzical frown.

I shrugged nonchalantly. "I dropped my paintbrush." All the while, my hand was stuffing the scrap of clothing into my right pocket. That thong, despite its size, had presence. It burned.

Bella appeared to be appeased with my answer. "Does the closet seem a bit more 'natural' now?"

I hadn't noticed the lack of clothes flying around. I surveyed the closet critically, noting that the clothes were arranged in a random disarray, some dangling on lamps and others strewn over the floor to create a mosaic rug.

"Exactly as it did when I first walked in," I teased.

Her cheeks turned red and the underwear in my pocked glowed in warmth with her blush. I fidgeted nervously in my seat.

Bella sensed that I was in a peculiar mood, but in reality, I was anxious that she would discover just how attached I was to her. I'd known enough women to learn that they would exploit every weakness they found in a man. But, still, Bella was different than most women I knew…

I drove home that night as recklessly as Paris's traffic would allow. I was honked at more times then I could count on my fingers and toes, but it hardly bothered me. I never got caught speeding or disobeying traffic laws.

Taking my stairs three steps at a time, I bounded into my studio and the adjoining bedroom. Finally, I could admire my stolen treasure and revel in my fantasies of Bella wearing nothing but the underwear I held in my hands, her beautiful lips spread in a smirk. Bella, her legs open and waiting for me; Bella, her head thrown back as she screamed my name in ecstasy.

I debated sniffing Bella's thong—would a trace of her intoxication freesia and strawberry sweetness linger in the silk?—but reasoned that it was a little overboard, even for my obsessive tendencies. I contented myself with stowing it under my pillow where sweet dreams of Bella in Rosalie-esque poses waited for me.

The next morning, I had to change my sheets.

--

Just to let you all know, I updated my profile. You should visit it. And then PM me. But for those of you that are like me and check out the author's favourites, I just have to let you know that there's nothing there. Yet. But, in the meantime, for some excellent T-rated fics, I recommend if you're into the wolves (all canon, so no need to panic Jacob haters!) and sillybella if you're up for some good old Edward/Bella. For some M-rated goodness, I recommend cdunbar or bethaboo or The Romanticidal Edwardian. And Midnight Desire by Twilightzoner, but it's really dirty...

Happy reading! Oh, and leave me a review...Please?


	9. Chapter 9

**I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors I might have. E's might be missing because my e key is acting up. My beta and I are having some communication issues...But we've gotten them sorted out.**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 9: Stilettos

I let out a frustrated sigh, letting my brush drop with a clatter onto my platter. I was going to regret it later if the bristles ended up bending in funny directions. Bella's head turned in my direction.

"What now?" I didn't blame her for sounding impatient—this was the fifth time I'd sighed and dropped my brush in little over two hours.

"I can't place my finger on it. You look unbelievably gorgeous, your hair is much prettier when tied up so we can see that neck, your pose is humorous and natural, I love your pout, but there's something missing."

"Can I see?"

"You know you're always welcome to."

Bella bounded over to my canvas and I tried not to admire the movement of her breasts. She leaned forward from behind me, a tendril of hair tickling my face. I could hear her steady breathing, loud in my left ear. She smelled so appallingly delicious that I wanted to twist my head slightly and lick her, chin to hairline.

"You're right. It almost doesn't seem like one of your paintings. Much too innocent."

I rubbed my eyes. Last night, I'd gotten only two hours of sleep. The rest of my evening was passed by sketching miniatures of Bella's many changing expressions.

"Any ideas? Because God knows you're the only one around with a functioning brain."

She clapped me on the back. As comforting as the gesture was, I hated that it was one of pure comradeship.

"Actually, I think I've got one," she whispered seductively in my other ear. Before I allowed myself to even contemplate the implications of her words, Bella was tearing down her hallway, clad in only blue lace. I had a sinking feeling Bella's idea didn't include sweating, heaving, panting, or sheets wrapped around entwined bodies.

Bella returned holding a classic pair of black pumps. "What do you think of these?"

"Are you sure you can wear those without impaling yourself?" I asked as I warily eyed the lethal-looking heels.

"Thanks for your confidence," she grumbled. I had to smile at that.

I watched as Bella, hopping on one foot, tried to force her foot into the other shoe. "Damn it," she muttered. She glanced up at my amused expression apologetically. "Alice brought them with her from New York and forgot them here. But I swear we were the same size."

"Let me help you." After all, my mother had instilled in me a gentleman's code of conduct.

I got down on one knee, gently placing Bella's foot on the leg that formed a right angle with the floor. Bella, clumsy as always, wobbled slightly, and I, unthinkingly, grabbed her thighs to steady her. She froze and I had to ascertain her expression. It was shocked, but nowhere did I read revulsion. I relaxed minutely.

Taking the time to kiss each of Bella's adorable toes, I lifted her foot up slightly to fix the heels on. In true Bella fashion, she lost her balance. Her hands shot out to entwine themselves in the closest possible anchor: my hair. Still not breaking eye contact, I slid my one hand down her propped-up leg, my fingers tracing the contours of her thighs, her delicate muscles. I gave her calve a little massage, stroking the soft underside tenderly. Out of my peripheral vision I saw her lace-clad chest rise and fall rapidly. I smirked to myself.

Finally, I placed a delicate kiss on the inside of Bella's knee, nibbling it slightly in an attempt to elicit a response. I was not disappointed—she moaned loudly, her fists tightening in my hair, drawing my closely. Abruptly, all the blood in my head rushed away to more urgent parts of my anatomy.

I coughed, trying to dispel the sexual tension in the air. Bella loosened her hold on my hair, blushing slightly, and I was left with my aching roots and a sense of loss.

She was right, as always. Simply put, my paintings were all very sexual in nature and my latest featuring Bella was playful and beautiful, but lacked a sensual quality. With the lethal stilettos, she suddenly appeared more brazen and sexy, less innocent and confused.

I was too distracted by the undulations of Bella's rolling hips to notice that she had tripped and was falling, legs tangled, to a sure impact with the ground. I lunged for her, my arms instinctively wrapping around her waist, pinning her to the bed.

Bella gasped loudly in my ear and I both heard and felt the sound. My face was pressed into her neck, the thrumming of her heart and constant buzz beneath my lips. I inhaled deeply, rememorizing her freesia scent. It would be an interesting addition to my ever racier imagination.

Unexpectedly, Bella began laughing and I became aware of how painfully close we were lying together. I could feel every curve of her body, every breath that her lungs drew in.

"Hmph?" I mumbled into her neck. _So good…_

"I was just thinking how lucky I am that I always have you to save me. You may think it's a curse, but I think it's a gift. You meet people by tripping into their arms. Do you remember how we met?" There was still laughter in her voice.

I smiled at the memory of Bella falling into my arms. "I'll always remember. But don't you think your clumsiness is a little too much of a good thing. I mean, this is what, take four of Bella tripping? Most of the time when I see you, you're just standing in a corner. You do well with what little opportunity you have."

I couldn't go on because Bella started giggling. Naturally, I reacted to the friction between our bodies and I was aware that she could very possibly feel my every reaction. Strangely enough, she stopped laughing when I trailed off.

"What was so funny before?" I wanted to know. Bella thrashed underneath me again and comprehension dawned. "You're ticklish, aren't you?" Her squealing only confirmed the answer I knew to be true.

I growled into her neck. "Ticklish, aren't you, Bella?" The vibrations from my voice ran down her spine, sending her body into random spasms. Bella was trying to be quiet, preferring to suffer in silence, only letting out the occasional sound. That wouldn't do.

I began nipping her neck playfully, letting my stubble rub against the side of her neck. She recoiled, laughing, and swatted at me.

"Say something, Bella, out loud," I threatened into her ear.

"Say what?" she replied breathlessly. I would be lying if I said the desperate need in her voice didn't lead to a noticeable reaction.

"Holler uncle. No, scratch that. Say my name," I growled, biting a little harder than I had been previously. She let out a strangled yelp.

"Not enough," I taunted her. My left hand felt its way over her soft breasts to her even softer lips. I could feel her lips stubbornly set and I resolved to change that.

"Say it." I was now licking my way down her neck to her collarbone. Her lips opened beneath my fingers and for a brief moment I thought she'd finally give in. Silly me. What I wasn't expecting was her warm moist tongue to wrap itself around my finger, pulling it in. I shut up for once, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

She kept pulling my finger in deeper and deeper and it was more than knuckle deep. Without warning, she began sucking on it, swirling her tongue around the tip.

"Bella," I groaned reverently into her neck.

I let her continue her ministrations for a few more minutes as I fought for control with my hormones. I pulled my finger out when I feared for my sanity and a complete loss of control.

"Now will you say it?" I had gone from demanding to begging. This woman was shameless.

"Edward," Bella sighed into my hair.

"Not good enough," I told her as I once again began lavishing her neck. When I reached the hollow under her ear, Bella let out a breathy moan. I switched up my technique, licking and sucking instead of kissing. Bella's hands wound themselves into my hair.

"More," she groaned. I gave her more.

"Edward, Edward, Edward," she chanted. Hearing my name repeated on her lips as if it were a sacred prayer sent a jolt of warmth into my chest,

Fevered, I gave her neck all my attention, incorporating a hand massage in there too. I was rewarded when I heard Bella scream my name out loudly.

The door banged open and Bella sat up so fast, I was knocked to the ground.

"Wow, Bella," the girl in the doorway smirked. "Sounded orgasmic."

A pillow was tossed with surprising accuracy at the girl's face. The girl had even better reflexes—she shut the door when the projectile would've collided with her face, only to open it again, effectively crushing the pillow between the wall and door.

"Does Mike know?" So the girl assumed to me to be a romantic interest of Bella's. Clearly, she was blind. Or suffered from delusions. It was too obvious that Bella was not interested.

"Get out, Angela!" Bella shouted. Poor girl. Her face was impossibly red, even redder than mine. She raised another pillow threateningly, but Angela didn't need any encouragement. She left, chuckling again before shutting the door.

I grimaced. "I see why you've kept her hidden from me all this time."

Bella didn't look at me as she made her way back to her pose. End of playtime; work officially started up again. I limped over to my easel—my left buttock was in dire pain from meeting the hardwood floor head on—and resumed my painting.

After a good half hour of silence, Bella turned to look me in the eye. "Do you want to have lunch together?"

--

Cliffie! Angela's a little OOC in this chapter, but oh well. This is fanfiction...This chapter is short, but it should tide you over til Saturday.

On a side note, thank you for all the reviews! It just blows me off my chair when I see all the email I have. I love it...No such thing as too much email! Leave me some love and I'll always get back to you!


	10. Chapter 10

**It's late, I know, but it's still Saturday, right?? Oh, and I'd like to take a moment to thank my beta, sispepperell. Any errors remaining are completely her fault...Kidding!**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 10: Lunch

I poked my head out the bedroom door. "All clear!" I whispered dramatically. Warm hands pushed me forward from my waist. The simple gesture had me reeling forward into the wall opposite the door.

"Ow," I muttered, rubbing my head gingerly.

A muffled giggle replied. Wait—muffled? I whirled around to face Bella's closed door. I tried the knob. Locked. Why didn't she lock it before Angela barged in? It would've saved me from embarrassment and her from teasing. Not to mention, it was the single best moment of my entire existence.

"Bella," I hissed, rapping my knuckles firmly on her wooden door. "Let me in."

I guess she didn't take my hint to be quiet. She spoke aloud in her normal voice. "I'm changing. Haven't you ever heard of privacy?"

I grimaced and shot a nervous look down the hall. No Angela in sight. I leaned closer, my mouth right in the crack between the door and wall.

"I've almost seen you naked. What else have you got to hide?"

"Everything important. Go find Angela and ask her if she knows where I put my red blouse."

Banished. I sulked towards the kitchen where I had a hunch Angela might be. Of course, she was there, her legs crossed, perched on the counter, a bucket of ice cream on her lap. As I watched, a drop of condensation rolled down, blotting her jeans. Angela herself blinked twice, licked her spoon and hopped off.

"Bonjour," she said in flawless French as she rinsed off her spoon. The now empty contained was chucked into the garbage.

I waited until she dried her hands. It was too obvious that she was curious about me. Angela turned to face me, her face speculative. "I hope you didn't want any ice cream."

I smiled awkwardly, my hands swinging uselessly at my sides. "Not really. Bella and I were just about to head out to lunch. I wouldn't want to spoil my appetite."

Angela nodded her head slowly and I knew instinctively that she was trying to figure out who I was.

"Who are you? Bella never mentioned having company over before." She crossed her arms and it was a slightly menacing motion.

Ouch. That stung. My ego deflated a little. "I'm…a friend."

Angela arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "And does this friend have a name?"

"That is irrelevant. Bella was wondering if you know where her red blouse is."

"It's in her closet. I returned it to her last night. I didn't think she would've forgotten already."

Comprehension hit me hard in the face. Bella knew where her red blouse was. I could remember it hanging in her open closet, its sleeve dripping over a white shirt like blood from a wound. She was trying to get rid of me.

"Thank you," I told Angela, stepping out of the kitchen. "And the name's Edward."

She smiled for the first time, and it made her tall stature and stony silence softer, more approachable. "Edward, you do realize that Bella never under any circumstances allows people in to her room. I live with her and I've only been in it maybe two times. Bella must care for you a lot if she's willing to share her privacy with you."

A peculiar feeling jerked my navel up and I understood with a jolt that it was happiness. "Not even that guy she's dating?"

Angela wrinkled her nose. "Mike? Honestly, I don't think it's going to last long. He's hopelessly devoted to her and I think the attention has gone to her head. He's an idiot."

I liked this Angela girl. I beamed at her.

"Don't tell Bella, though," she added, moving towards the fridge. "Want a soda?"

Forgetting all about the red blouse, I grinned at Angela. I was in a celebratory mood. "Sure."

She tossed me a can with surprising accuracy. The sugary sweetness of the carbonated drink only added to my state of euphoria.

Mid-gulp, I heard a sound by the kitchen entry. My drink pressed to my lips, I turned in time to witness Bella catch herself on a chair. I choked and began sputtering incoherently. Somewhere in my fog-induced brain, I registered Angela snickering good-humouredly.

Bella was clad in a midnight blue dress—the exact same shade as my favourite lingerie set, I noticed—that was just short mid-thigh. Although simply cut, the dress only served to emphasize the smooth evenness of Bella's skin, the dark lustre of her eyes and waved hair, and her ample figure. To complete the outfit, she was wearing the black stilettos. Ridiculous fantasies crowded my mind and Angela's presence was forgotten. I tried to ignore my body's reaction when Bella's pink tongue slipped out to moisten her lips.

"What do you think?" Bella asked, giving her dress a twirl. "It's not too dressy, is it?"

All I could do was gawk at the creamy flesh that had been exposed as Bella turned.

Thankfully, Angela chimed in, perhaps sensing my inability to piece together a coherent sentence. "I think it's perfect. I didn't know you had a dress quite like it. You should have worn it last week to that gallery! Then maybe some artist like Edward Masen would've been vying to have you model for him."

Bella blushed deeply, her eyes darting to me quickly and back. My brain kicked in again. Obviously, Bella had not told Angela anything about modeling for me.

"Are you ready to go?" Bella asked to dispel the sudden awkwardness in the air. Angela was looking between us, confused.

I threw my car keys in the air and caught them easily. "Of course. My car?"

"See you around, Ang," Bella called as we left.

I revved the ignition, waiting as Bella slowly made her way into the car, taking care to arrange her dress carefully around her. I sneakily eyed her pale thighs, snapping my head quickly to the front when she twisted in her seat to look at me.

Silently, I began backing out of the parking space. As I began smoothly accelerating the car, I asked Bella, "You went to an exhibit of mine last week?"

"Yes." If she was embarrassed, she was hiding it well. "Partly because of the research project and partly because I missed you."

I ignored how my heart warmed at her simple words. "You didn't tell Angela about me?"

"No," she sighed, stirring up the air. I took a deep breath of her heady scent. "Angela's a huge fan of modern art. She knows you, as you heard, but I'm just avoiding a really awkward conversation about you."

I was confused. "How would it have been an awkward conversation?"

Bella was shaking her head, but with frustration or defiance, I couldn't tell. "Thank about it, Edward. It's not scandalous to be a nude model, but for Edward Masen, painter extraordinaire of sexuality, well, let's just say I'm not comfortable enough with my body to be doing some of those poses."

I could see her point, but, "You shouldn't feel insecure about your body. I can honestly say I've seen a lot of nude and near-nude women, and your beauty far outstrips them, even when fully clothed."

Bella's cheeks heated and her eyes melted. "Thank you, but that's a little hard to believe. Rosalie Hale was your last model. Rosalie Hale, the incarnation of beauty itself."

I turned back to the road. "Beauty is subjective. Of course, Rosalie is beautiful in her own way, but I much rather prefer brunettes." I grinned cheekily at her.

She didn't argue with me.

At an Italian restaurant I enjoyed named La Tua Cantante, I parked, rushing to help Bella out of the car. She took my offered hand, looking up to beam irresistibly at me. My own mouth quirked up in response, but in a rather foolish smile.

When we were comfortably seated, I strove to make Bella feel as comfortable in my presence as possible, telling her about what critics had written, the insults they'd thrown. Every time Bella laughed, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, I thrilled at the sound. I encouraged her to tell me about her experiences in university—I'd gotten several degrees, but chose to do them online in this technological age—and she immediately launched into a story of a boy that was once in her biology class.

"I was taking genetics and our topic of the day was genes that modify eye colour. Our teacher was explaining different modifiers and the phenomena of modification when someone piped up, 'What about people with different coloured eyes? Like Marilyn Manson? What happened to their genes?' My teacher replied, 'Those are called contacts.'"

I chuckled at the boy's naivety. It was immensely gratifying to see Bella so thoroughly enjoying herself, her work waving around to punctuate her sentences.

"Why were you taking genetics? It isn't a required course."

Bella popped ravioli in to her mouth, licking her lips to rid the pasta sauce. I stared. "Well, I was taking human anatomy anyways, and I'd always been interested in genetics. You know, I had a good friend who was Mendel every year for Halloween. She'd wear a long brown robe with a can of peas hanging on her belt."

"I've always found genetics a little too predictable. I'm more into medicine, myself."

Bella cocked her head. "Do you read up on it for fun?"

I hesitated. Was this the right moment to be honest? "I have a degree in medicine, actually," I confessed, "from Dartmouth."

A strangled sound escaped Bella' lips and I realized in panic that she was choking. By the time it occurred to me to run over and register the Heimlich maneuver, a half glass of water had already made its way down Bella's throat.

"You have a medical degree from_ Dartmouth_?" She was gazing at me as though she'd never seen me before.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Maybe honesty wasn't always the best policy. "Would I lie to you?"

Bella appeared doubtful. "I don't think so…but, damn! Wow, Edward, I knew you were smart but…How old are you?"

"27." I scrutinized her face carefully. Her expression wavered between incredulity and awe.

"Wow, Edward. You're the epitome of achievement," she breathed.

I ducked my head modestly, noticing a man eyeing Bella curiously. Who was he? And he began moving towards us, his walk determined and strong, a slightly suspicious frown on his face.

I knew it was him. Mike. The guy who had everything I wanted and didn't deserve. Not that he deserved Bella. But he was everything I expected.

His hair was spiked into a casual disarray, his skin smooth and flawless. He had broad shoulders, fair hair, eyes a bright cerulean blue. A messenger bag was slung across his left shoulder.

In desperation, I seized Bella' hand sin mine. She responded with a questioning brow, but thankfully, did not pull away. The man in my peripheral vision stilled.

"Tell me, Bella, do you like me?" I was too far gone to feel embarrassed at the raw need and hunger that clawed itself out of my voice.

Her eyes were wary. "Yes, I do. You're a very interesting man, Edward Masen."

Interesting. The word was too ambiguous; I didn't know what to make of it. And so I pressed her for more.

"Define interesting. Would you consider me a friend?"

Bella's face warmed up all over, her smile alone enough to melt my empty chest. Her eyes were gentle. "Strangely, Edward, you're one of my best friends."

The light squeeze of her tiny hands made my heart beat for the first time in years.

Abruptly, her eyes refocused on something—or someone, rather—behind me, a smile breaking across her face the way the sun creeps in and covers the world in a burst of light. I sighed, releasing her hands, knowing I'd lost.

"Mike," Bella whispered, reverently, lovingly.

With that one word, I feel all the distance we'd covered being swallowed by a chasm to dangerous to cross.

--

Heh. Bet a lot of you kind of hate me now. Oh well. Don't let that deter you from reviewing...In my defense, this was a very difficult chapter for me to write. I went through at least three drafts. I'm not quite satisfied with this one, but that doesn't matter. Are you? Next update should be Monday at the latest!


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks once again to my beta, sisipepperell. We may not always agree, but your services are still much appreciated...**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 11: Obsession

That night, when the world was dark as my soul and the birds refused to sing, I thought of Bella. It was shocking, concerning really, how much a single person had managed to change my life. Suddenly, I would find myself smiling at nothing at all, chuckling over memories that had until recently been painful reliving.

At night, I would dream of Bella: Bella and her soft eyes, lit from within like a welcoming fire; Bella with her pale thighs, her ivory skin. I would fondle the thong that lay safely tucked between my sheets and pillow, its silkiness becoming the cool of her hair.

Night was the time for us.

During the day, it was worse. I spent every minute remembering the way Bella had spoken his name, the way his mere presence had caused that beautiful blossom of a smile.

I longed to own that smile.

On Sundays, our chatter became small talk, spiraling down surely into silence. Always omnipresent, Mike's presence lingered on the fringe of our conversations, close enough for me to feel stilted and awkward, but far enough that Bella would shoot me questioning glances.

Silently, I was putting in the finishing touches of the lace across Bella's chest. My hand still shook occasionally whenever I got distracted, but mostly I was able to consider Bella's body objectively as if it weren't attached to her.

"I typed up my essay on you," Bella said suddenly, her face not straying from its posed position. "Would you like to read it?"

I carefully put down my brush, wiping any remaining paint onto my jeans. "If you wouldn't mind."

Bella was a flurry of blue and ivory as she moved around, finally bringing a neatly stacked pile of paper. She perched nervously on her bed, her legs crossed but swinging freely, as I thumbed through the wrinkleless pages.

Her prose was elegant and stylish, her words conjuring up clear images in my head. The narrative voice was distinctive, but never drew unwarranted attention to itself. The grammar was flawless, the observations, clever insights and witty remarks all in there, stated better than I could have said myself. Bella's praise of my contributions to the artistic society never ended, but were never overdone. They were subtle and honest enough to be believable, but nevertheless monumental. At the end, I was convinced that Edward Masen was single-handedly one of the most gifted and influential artists of modern Paris.

I cleared my throat. It was unlike me to become so emotionally unstable, so sentimental, because of a mere essay. "It's good." I winced internally. Even I could understand what an insult that would sound like to Bella. She probably spent the whole night before on her computer, the words flowing in spurts and stops. I imagined the delete key was involved a lot for the essay to reach perfection.

I met Bella's anxious eyes with a calm gaze of my own. She was chewing on her lower lip, an expression deviously sexy in its innocence.

"Oh," she mumbled, holding her hand out for me to return it. A faint pink stained her cheeks, and in that moment, I understood the courage it took her to show me her essay, to reveal what she thought of me.

I didn't move. It suddenly was of utmost importance for me to clarify my thoughts. "It's not…I mean, it is…What I'm trying to say is that I'd like to keep this copy, if you wouldn't mind."

Slowly, she lifted her head so that her eyes met mine. It shouldn't have been possible for that amount of excitement and happiness to be bubbling in those expressive orbs of hers. "Of course you can keep it. I'm…honoured."

I grinned ruefully. "I'm sorry I gave you the wrong impression earlier. This whole expressing-your-emotions thing is very difficult for me. I'm the sort of person who doesn't believe in giving praise 'til praise is overdue. But what I wanted to say is that it's beautifully written. Very eloquent."

Bella's cheeks heated at the intensity of my compliment. Naturally, she shrugged modestly, trying to deflect the attention away from herself. "I typed it up last night when I was loopy from sleep deprivation," she confessed, smiling slightly. "But the words have rattled in my head for long enough that they've been smoothed into perfection."

I looked down at the essay in my hands. A piece of Bella. I wonder if she sprayed it with her perfume…

"You must've written it many times in your head for it to be so good."

"It's been written in my head a thousand times in a thousand different ways." She grimaced. "When I'm in bed, awake and unable to sleep, that's when I'm most creative. Sometimes, I think about you and I write."

The little smile she awarded me with along with her confession made my heart swell into confusing proportions.

"You must have a twisted perspective of me," I commented, my lips twisting into a wry half-smile. "The way you describe me…I almost like myself."

A frown etched deep lines into Bella's forehead. She wasn't a fan of my self-deprecating humour. "You're infuriating sometimes, Edward, did you know that? What's not to like? You don't see yourself clearly. You damned artists always have the same mentality. You know, artists never find their own piece satisfactory, but to the critics, it's a masterpiece. I think your blindness has carried on outside of your work and has warped your perception of yourself."

She glared at me hotly, her face flush with anger, fists clenched at her side. With a huff, she crossed her arms, doing incredible things to her chest…

I tore my eyes away. It was ridiculous how much Bella's little rant could boost my morale.

I smiled weakly. "Thanks, Bella. I think I need a little boost every so often. You're the only person who can tell me something like that and force me to believe it."

Bella flashed me a cheeky grin. "I'll tell you every time I see you. I never want you to doubt how amazing you are." Her words had a seal of a promise to them.

Quickly, so fast that if the burn of a prolonged sensation had not lingered on, I would not have felt it, Bella leaned in to give me a quick peck on the cheek. Her lips were soft and warm, as I'd always imagined they would be. I nearly died from the pleasure.

Bella returned to her pose, flashing her teeth one last time as she settled into her pose. Shocked, I realized I had not thought about her body for the last few minutes. It showed that our connection was deeper than physicality, that she truly understood me.

"Bella, do you have time in your schedule to meet twice a week? I want to finish this piece in time for my new exhibit to open in the summer." She didn't need to know that I had ulterior motives—to tear her away from Mike. I already made up my mind that I would make her see me as more than a friend.

She pursed her lips, pondering. "I think so…" she began slowly, "but only if you help me with some biology homework. It should be a cinch for you, Mr. Dartmouth. I must warn you though; I'm terrible at it, so bring lots of patience with you."

I smiled to myself. Studying with Bella? How could I say no? My mind was already conjuring images of us sitting closely side by side, my hand covering hers occasionally to cross out something she wrote. She would stare at me, enraptured, as I made all the questions of the universe comprehensible…

I realized with a jolt that I had never been physically close to her for a prolonged period of time. We usually sat across from each other. I welcomed new experiences.

"Name the day and I'll be there. Fear not: if you fail to graduate, it won't be because of biology when I'm through with you. I'll have you writing up Mendel's laws as you sleep instead of brilliant essays."

A lovely tinkling laugh escaped Bella. "Wednesday. Come here sometime in the afternoon."

And with her smile and sly wink, I wondered if that chasm was impossible to cross. That maybe, hopefully, we'd just built a bridge.

--

I'm not actually sure when the next update will be. Probably Friday. To commemorate the opening of Twilight. Who's going to see it, by the way?


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks, as always, to my fabulous beta sisipepperell. I hope you enjoy Twilight! (That goes for all of you out there...You must tell me how it is!)**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 12: Criticism

My brush fell with a clatter to the ground. Propping my elbows on my knees, I dropped my face into my paint-smeared hands, not caring if I happened to have smudged blue paint all over my face.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything," I moaned into my hands. "Everything is wrong."

Bella padded softly towards me, her joints popping as she kneeled beside me. For the longest time she was silent. Somewhere in the corners of my mind, I wondered if she thought I was being overdramatic as I was often prone to being.

"Is it so bad you can't bear to tell me your opinion of it?"

She laughed quietly. "Not at all. I just didn't expect you to be done already. But it's stunning and quite humorous too."

I peeked between my fingers. Although I couldn't doubt her transparent honestly, my inner masochist whispered that she was only trying to make me feel better.

I sighed, lifting my head up to scrutinize my painting. The background was lovely, the closet transcribed with perfect perspective and artistry. Bella's clothes were strewn haphazardly all over, creating unexpected havoc with the viewer's eyes. But the attention was drawn to the angel in blue that wore disheveled hair and a bitten pout. It looked like Bella, that much was true, but failed to capture her spirit.

"No, it's not. There's something all wrong about your face. It may appear to be you, but it's not _you_."

Bella nodded slightly, her lips pursed in thought. I waited expectantly for her to offer me her words of wisdom.

"Can I use your brush for a second?"

My eyes darted between her outstretched hand and the brush on the ground. I knew that Bella could've bent down and picked it up herself, that she was really asking for my permission. I was torn—on the one hand, I completely and explicitly trusted her, but it was a slightly comfortable feeling as if I was going against my nature. Slowly, I picked up the brush, placing it gently in her hand. Her fingers closed over it.

Anxiously, I watched as her hand made its way to my canvas. Her arm moved, mimicking the line she was planning to draw. Just as her hand descended, I turned away.

"Done."

I whipped my head around, my eyes scanning frantically for some blemish on my nearly complete painting. After checking over the entire thing, I realized how foolish I was acting. The change was subtle but made the painting pulse with life.

"Interesting." My voice was admiring. "You added a frown line." And it was true. She'd taken a slightly darker tone and smudged a line just above her brow.

She nodded modestly, but I could see the excitement glimmering deep within her eyes. "Crazy how a small change can make such a big difference."

Her eyes were fixated on the painting. I found her face much more interesting to observe. "Talent like yours, you should be an artist."

Bella was already shaking her head. "No. I don't have the dedication you do. I get halfway through a piece and I'm already sick of looking at it. Most of mine are unfinished and hidden beneath my bed."

"Really?" I ducked my head down to try to peek under the bed.

She yanked my ear. "Please don't." Her eyes were desperate.

I folded myself back into my chair. "Maybe not today…" I hoped she didn't miss the hint.

Bella smiled tightly. Changing the subject, she said, "It now looks exactly like me—it's unsettling."

Not very subtle, but I rolled with it. I frowned. "I disagree. I think the real thing is much more beautiful."

A flush stained Bella's cheeks as she folded her robe tighter around her. "You should show Carlisle tonight. He'll be so proud."

Still appraising the painting, I bobbed my head. "I think I will."

"Tell me how it goes, okay? As your model, I think I should be privy to classified information."

I grinned crookedly at her, earning a smile in return. "Of course."

--

Carlisle surveyed the painting carefully, his eyes wiped clean of all emotions. My palms were sweating and I wiped them on my jeans. The annoying but persistent changing of the second was the only sound I could hear other than my obvious coughs and Carlisle's even breathing.

"Is it any good?" I had to break the silence—it was threatening to crush me, to overpower the memory of Bella.

Carlisle did not answer for some time. I had an urge to do a bizarre dance that strangely resembled the one I did when I hadn't gone to the bathroom for a while. "It's phenomenal."

With his warm smile, all I felt was relief surging through me, hotter and faster than any adrenaline rush. "Is this what you meant by tenderness?"

Carlisle chuckled. "So you took my words to heart? I can't say this is exactly what I expected. I was thinking more along the lines of vulnerability, but with this painting, you've captured a different sort of intimacy here than your previous work."

I couldn't help but laugh in return. "I seem more a lovesick voyeur than a forceful and hormonal boyfriend, do I?"

"Well, aren't you?"

I was left momentarily speechless, my mouth forming words that never connected with a sound.

"I've been struck by an idea. Your new exhibit should have the two contrasting series: your Rosalie one—what did you call it? _Romancing Rosalie_?—and one with this new model."

"Bella," I automatically interjected.

His eyes flashed to mine and away. I couldn't decipher the underlying meaning in them. "And one with Bella. They will provide an interesting contrast, I would think. I'll ask the gallery if they're not too upset about pushing your opening to fall."

My mind was awhirl with the possibilities. But one was clearer than the others—Carlisle was offering me an opportunity to spend at least three more months with Bella. How could I say no?

"I think it's an excellent idea." My voice was just a tad bit too eager. I infused it with my usual apathy. "However, if my model is unavailable, can I scrap the whole thing?"

Carlisle's brown furrowed, confused. "Are you against hiring a different model?"

"No!" I nearly shouted. He looked shocked, but the slight smile playing about his lips suggested disbelief. I took a deep breath, not wanting him to see how deep I'd fallen for Bella. "I mean, yes, I am. Bella and I work well together. She understand what I am trying to achieve and communicate to my audience."

He turned away too fast for me to be able to see it, nodding his head in a slightly patronizing manner. I was filled with awkward embarrassment. Perhaps I wasn't as good of an actor as I thought I was.

"So be it." He put on his hat and coat, leaving, and I was left in my dark studio to contemplate the possibilities I had with Bella.

--

A little on the short side, but the next update should be tomorrow (fingers crossed). That should be enough to sustain you. As always, leave a review and I will get back to you! (And yes, I'm getting back to everyone. It's in the process...)


	13. Chapter 13

**I'm a terrible person. I lied. I said I'd get this up by yesterday, but I didn't. I have a good reason though! We had company over yesterday and let's just say they arrived several hours before expected. Oh, and I got distracted by Oxymoronic8's fabulous Innocent, Vigilant, Ordinary. You should read it.**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 12: Job

"Hello?"

Clearly, I was whipped. Even the sound of her voice brought an involuntary curving of the lips. "Bella?"

"Oh, hey, Edward. Did you talk to Carlisle already? What's the news?" Despite the late hour, she sounded eager and peppy.

I toyed with the sketches of Bella that covered every envelope of every bill that every company had ever sent me. "He liked it very much." I wasn't one for elaboration.

For a moment, Bella's answering squeal was loud enough that I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. I'd never heard her so happy before.

"I told you," her smug little voice teased. I rolled my eyes even though she couldn't see me.

"Unfortunately, he likes it a lot. I have another proposal for you—how would you like to be my model for the summer? It would look great on your resumé…"

All I heard was Bella's even breathing and static. Slightly anxious, I began pacing up and down my studio, running a hand through my hair occasionally. I sat down. Silence. I shook my phone, futilely hoping the silence could be blamed on bad reception. "Hello? Did I mention that models get paid ridiculously well? You'll have no trouble affording an apartment next year for you and Alice." Still nothing. I resorted to begging. "This may sound like an option, but it really isn't one. I don't want another model—I want you. Please?"

At last, she sighed and my heart picked up. I already knew what her answer would be. "You know I can't resist you."

The excitement in my voice could not be disguised. "That's great. Can we talk about this in more detail tomorrow in my studio?"

Bella agreed immediately. Before I hung up, she wished me sweet dreams. Long after the phone went dead, I stood there, smiling idiotically.

The next day I was rushing around, tidying my studio, functioning on only a few hours of sleep. Still, I didn't want her to see my lazy habit of leaving paintbrushes to harden with paint. Leaping over a few rolls of canvas, I threw a few more brushes into the garbage, mourning their loss. I needed to take better care of my things.

I dressed up in a button-up, feeling that this meeting was pivotal in our relationship. I stood in front of my closet, picking out my cleanest pair of jeans. The irony of the situation, that I had painted Bella in the exact same pose, did not escape me. In the end I settled on a dark wash with only two streaks of yellow paint across the back. At least, I reasoned, the yellow was pleasantly bright, unlike some of the more garish colours splattered on my clothes.

I shaved carefully, successfully avoiding nicking myself. My hair was impossible, but I combed it deftly with a few strokes, managing to tame it into less of a mess.

As I struggled with hiding away my various power tools I used for cutting my wood stretchers, the doorbell rang. "Coming," I called, leaning a roll of canvas against the cupboard to keep it closed.

I dashed past my closet, noting a few pairs of jeans on the ground that I'd forgotten to hide away. Opening the closet carefully, I stuffed them inside. It didn't escape my notice that well over half my clothes were littering the ground, wrinkled and lifeless. Christ, I needed a maid. Or a girlfriend.

I wrenched open the door, revealing a smiling Bella. She entered the studio, looking around as if it was her first time. I took the opportunity to study her. She was stunningly beautiful in a simple graphic dress.

"Hey," she said, almost shyly. My mind evaporated.

"Hey." So much for a witty reply. At least I closed the door behind her. "Please, um, have a seat." I pulled out my comfiest chair with a flourish. She sat down with surprising grace, crossing her legs. My attention was immediately drawn to the black stilettos she wore encased around her feet. _The _black stilettos. I gulped, already twitching nervously.

I sat down in a wooden chair directly across from Bella.

"I've never seen you in a tie before," she mused aloud. Her eyes gleamed mischievously. "Is this what you wear to openings?"

I glanced down at the tie I didn't notice I was fiddling with. I let go, trying to appear casual as I gripped the armrests tightly. Squaring my shoulders, I spoke. "I only own this one tie, so yes, it's the one I wear to openings. I suck at this formality thing—can we just scrap it? We're more than casual acquaintances." Bella shrugged, one corner of her mouth tugging up. I leaned forward, placing my hands on my knees. She mimicked my motions, but propped her face up with one hand. The new angle allowed me a nice view down the front of her dress…

I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. She gave me a questioning glance, but I just smiled in response. "Last night when I was being an insomniac, I came up with a few ideas. I want to create a contrasting series with you that goes against everything Rosalie represents. Rosalie, as you have noted, is very posed, very dominant. For you, I just want to pull a Degas and paint you in ordinary scenes that are just snapshots of your life. None of the paintings should look contrived."

Her eyes were intent on my face. I stared at her plump lips as they formed to make words. "Question: am I going to be naked in any or all of these?"

I licked my lips unconsciously. But I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. As much as I wanted to see Bella naked, I knew she was not yet comfortable enough in front of me. I didn't want to force her. "I won't paint anything you're not comfortable showing to the public."

"Too late," she muttered under her breath. I winced.

"If you don't want to, you can always say no." I tried to use my eyes to express the conflict I felt. I didn't want her to leave, but forcing her to pose in uncomfortable situations was not an option.

Bella's eyes locked onto mine. It was hypnotic, the pull of her eyes. The depth to them… "I can't say no to you, Edward." Whether she meant for it to happen or not, her voice was a low purr, forcing blood to flow to all the wrong places.

I understood exactly what she meant. We shared a strange but undeniable connection, but I was always distancing myself, taking a step away when Bella reached out.

As if reading my thoughts, Bella stood up and began pacing around the room. My mind was fixated on her mouth, her hips, her form-fitting black-and-white dress. And those stilettos…

Eventually, she stopped in front of me, her eyes determined. I watched warily as her hands descended on my shoulders. My eyes flickered between her mouth and hands, conflicted.

"Trust me," she whispered.

I had no time to reply before her lips were warm on mine, moving in ways I'd never felt before. I cautiously responded to her movements, ignoring my less noble side that was screaming at me to grab her and lift her into my lap. She was close enough for me to be able to smell her strawberry shampoo, taste her lips between my teeth. It was a euphony of sorts, this arrangement of smell and taste and feel.

Bella pulled away, her eyes probing mine. I didn't know what she was searching for but I knew she knew I was not yet ready. Her dark eyes were soft, full of promise, but her mouth was screwed with understanding.

"I'll go slow," she told me, turning to leave. She paused in the doorway. "Will I see you at my graduation?"

I grinned, my heart still pounding its furious rhythm in my chest. This was an engagement I could make and keep. "I wouldn't miss it."

The radiance from Bella's beam could have easily outshone the sun.

"Oh, Bella? What happened to Mike?" I called out to her retreating back.

Once again, she turned, but this time her face screwed up the way a child's would at bath time. "Mike was a schmuck. It was the idea of him that I was chasing after. To cure the lonely nights."

Before I could process what her words, she left in a whirlwind of memories and scent. I pressed my fingers to my lips. It was a tentative kiss for sure, but I knew I wanted more.

--

I know. It should be longer after all this delay. But I'll make it up to you next chapter, I promise...Tell me what you think. And your review of the Twilight movie of course.


	14. Chapter 14

**As always, thanks to my beta sispepperell. You make me laugh...**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 14: Graduation

My hands were clammy, my brow sweating. All common symptoms of claustrophobia. I was standing in a crowd of over twenty thousand people, composed mostly of parents, but also made of the occasional friend or teacher. I didn't know exactly which category I belonged to.

I grabbed a seat near the front, my giant camera in my hands. Bella had told me that her parents couldn't afford to fly over for her graduation and that I should take many pictures to send to them later. When I'd offered to purchase the plane tickets for her, she just rolled her eyes.

"I know you've got money," she'd said, her hand on a jutting hip. "You needn't flaunt it."

I had tried my best to look humble. "I am naught but a penniless artist."

Bella'd let out a very unladylike snort. "Don't lie to me, Edward. That is a Lacoste polo. Alice is teaching me the symbols. Do you know how much that _cost_?"

My only answer had been to self-consciously rub my chest.

A heavyset man in his late thirties plopped down beside me, stinking of nicotine and cigarette smoke. I leaned away, trying not to seem too interested in the stains his fingers had accumulated over the years, turning them yellow and black. He reminded me of my own father.

Finally, the long ceremony began. Often, I found myself drifting into a fitful slumber before being jerked awake by a particularly loud round of applause. After several dull speeches, no doubt recycled through the years, and an especially horrid rendition of _Pomp and Circumstance_, they began calling out the names of the graduates. One by one, each had a brief moment of glory as they received their diploma, shook hands, and were forgotten. When Bella's name was called, I was the only one that jolted upwards, immersed in polite applause. I heaved the camera up, my finger poised to begin spastically clicking.

Bella seemed to glide across the stage much slower than the others, a gentle but terrified smile fixed on her kind face. I could nearly hear her thoughts, careful to not trip and embarrass herself one last time in front of her peers. In my distractedness, I'd nearly forgotten to take pictures; quickly, I clicked a few times, not bothering to check the focus or lighting.

Bella received her diploma with a brilliant smile, and like that, it was over. I whooped and cheered until I was hoarse.

"Not another one!" Bella groaned as she raised her arm half-heartedly. The flash went off.

I peeked at her from behind the camera. "It's for your parents. Now, smile!"

The camera flashed again. Bella closed her eyes and turned away, a trace of a pout around her mouth. I laughed at the resulting picture. "You're such a baby."

Bella shrugged, her dark eyes alight with mischief. "That's okay. Babies are cute and can always make people laugh."

I sighed. "They also annoy the hell out of their parents and can't control their bodily functions."

Her melodious laugh reverberated in the air. "Remind me not to have children with you." Her comment stung more than it should have.

Abruptly, her face was panicked. She pulled me to the side, switching our places. "Help!" she mouthed furiously to me. "Mike is coming from behind me. Save me?"

"Hey, Bella."

My arm wrapped itself securely around Bella's waist, pulling her beside me. She tucked her head sheepishly into my chest. I smiled tightly at Mike, pleased to note that I had to look down to meet his eyes.

"Hey, Mike. This is Edward. Edward, Mike."

I flash my teeth briefly. He gulped. My smile widened. "Pleased to meet you." I squeezed his hand unnecessarily hard, but not as much as I would've liked to.

He winced, shaking his hand out inconspicuously, but composed himself quickly. "Bella, could I have a moment with you? Alone."

I could sense Bella's hesitation, her desperate want to say no, but self sacrificing as she was, she replied with a curt, "Alright."

I stared hard at Bella. "I'll get us some refreshments." _Stay here. I'll be back._

Bella nodded in understanding and I released her from my embrace. Cold air seemed to rush to fill the void she left, leaving me feeling empty. Already, the inches between us were a space too vast.

I returned shortly with two flutes of champagne. I stood a little ways to the side, giving Mike and Bella some privacy. As I pretended to scan the legions of people swamped around me, I sipped some champagne and strained my ears to overhear their conversation.

"I don't like him, Bella," he was arguing with her quietly.

Bella's voice sounded weary. I could imagine her rubbing her temples, a frown between her brows. "You don't have to like him, Mike."

"How can you even trust him? How long have you known him for?"

"It's been months, Mike. How can you judge him if you don't even know him?"

"Maybe I can't," Mike muttered darkly, "but I don't like the way he looks at you…It's like he's picturing you naked."

I whirled around, fixing Mike with a glare that affirmed I had heard everything. Bella, with her back to me, answered with a giggle that was pitched too high, tainted with an edge of hysteria.

Instantly, I appeared at Bella's elbow, my gaze still harsh. Mike took one glance at my face and walked away. His face was closed. I narrowed my eyes at his retreating back.

"I don't like that Newton kid. He's getting on my nerves."

She placed her hand on my arm, effectively quelling any anger that was bubbling inside of me. I smiled down at her. She gazed back at me, impossibly beautiful with the slight accent of eyeshadow she'd smudged on for the occasion.

"Come on," I laughed, tugging her away. "I'll take you to dinner."

She eagerly shed her graduation gown, revealing the dress underneath. It was the lowest cut I'd ever seen Bella wear, exposing a tasteful amount of her ample cleavage. It hugged her slim waist, cascading into a mess of midnight blue silk. Unlike man girls' dresses, it was short, lacking the heavy formality that seemed foolish in the Paris heat.

When Bella caught me ogling her, she blushed deeply, the flush extending down to her collarbone. I followed its descent with eager eyes. "What do you think? It's one of Alice's own designs. She doesn't let me shop anymore—she just brings heaps and heaps of clothing every time she comes. Originals."

I sucked in a few more lungfuls of air. I wanted to tear my eyes away from Bella, knowing the gawking was probably making her uncomfortable, but my eyes wouldn't stray far from her magnetic beauty.

"I'm sorry," I said apologetically, my lips twisting in an ironic half-smile. "I'm staring."

One blush deepened into the next. "I don't mind. Well, I do. But it's very flattering."

Gleaming blonde hair caught my eye briefly and I watched Newton turn away, trying to be surreptitious. He wanted a show, did he?

I was filled with an inane and violent urge to mark Bella as my own. Possessively, I grabbed Bella forcibly by her hips, grinding her pelvis into mine. She squeaked at the suddenness of my movement, but I, lost to the delicious friction between us, half-moaned in response. I seized her face in my hands, pulling her towards me. Her eyes widened before her lips met mine in a clash of passionate need.

I drank her up, sucking her breath, feeding her my own. I kissed her feverishly, crazed, with a zest that bordered on the desperate. Her strawberry lip gloss coated my own lips, and I devoured it greedily, always wanting to taste more. I thrust my tongue into her mouth, beginning a strange and intricate dance that was entirely new to me, and yet mapped out by instincts. My hands of their own accord slid their way down Bella's body, landing to grab her hips again to pull her closer to me. She responded by lacing her fists through my hair, making me nearly cry out in the pleasurable pain it caused. My grip tightened. Poor girl. She was going to have bruises.

The edginess of my stolen kiss ebbed away, becoming softer, gentler. Our tongue dance slowed, her grip slackened, and I ravished her mouth in sweeter way, peppering her face lightly with kisses.

She pulled away first, her lips swollen and red. I ripped my eyes away from her hypnotic ones to search over the bemused eyes of our stunned audience. I was pleased when a scanning of faces told me there were no blond boys in attendance.

Tenderly, I tucked a strand of hair behind Bella's ears, remembering the first time we'd met. "I got a little carried away. I hope you don't mind."

Her cheeks filled with colour, her eyes never wavering. "I don't mind," she replied faintly. Her eyes whispered of emotions unbeknownst to me. But with her help as my teacher, I was hoping to learn.

--

I'm still getting back to everyone's review of the previous chapter...But don't be discouraged! Leave me a review and I will, eventually, get back to you. Oh, and a few random questions: What's a good guitar? And don't say, "Mine!" I mean, literally, what is the coveted guitar, the Steinway of guitars? Just curious. I don't play...But I do own a rather crappy Yamaha guitar!


	15. Chapter 15

**This took a ridiculous amount of time, I know. Updates should be faster from now on. But I saw Twilight finally! More on the bottom. Thanks to sisipepperell, the awesome beta who checked this over in a few hours notice. Go check out her community! She spent a lot of time compiling!  
**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 15: Firsts

She burst into the room, sunglasses askew and a bag laden with clothes dangling off her arm. "So sorry I'm late," she apologized repeatedly as she whirled around, throwing her coat somewhere and tossing her bag onto the floor. Almost immediately, she began undressing, her fingers nimbly undoing her buttons frantically but systematically.

I kept my eyes riveted to the floor. "It's not a problem," I mumbled to my shoes.

"It's just"—the sound of her pants hitting the floor—"Alice unexpectedly phoned this morning to tell me that she's flying over in two weeks time. Apparently, I'm supposed to fix up a bed for her and clear out my closet because she's made me many new clothes that I will love."

Against my better instincts, my eyes darted upwards. Bella was turned away from me, but I could tell she was clad simply in black lingerie, a robe draped over it for modesty's sake. And then she turned around…

"Did I do that?" My eyes were fixated firmly on Bella's hips where two distinct hand markings had been left. Almost immediately, she pulled the robe closer to her body, effectively concealing the dark bruises marring her pale skin.

"No."

The lie, though not accusing, was obvious. An unexplainable lump rose in my throat. "Was that from…?"

"Yes," Bella answered curtly. I didn't know whether to interpret her bluntness as berating or her own special brand of honesty. "You don't need to apologize. I…enjoyed myself." This was punctuated by a flow of blood to her cheeks.

Our conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn. As much as my male pride glowed with the truth of her compliment, I could see that Bella expected me to give too much back, most of which I was not ready to share yet. Under her expectant stare, I said nothing.

Soon, the silence became uncomfortable, deafening in its choke. I cleared my throat and changed the subject. "Would you like to start? I've been brainstorming last night on my theme."

She seemed resigned, but waved her arm as encouragement to continue.

"My previous piece had an unexpected humorous twist to it, and I was hoping to follow that same path with these other pieces. I understand women often find themselves in awkward situations in an attempt to beautify themselves." Where did I learn to sound so stiff and formal? If my mother was alive, she would've given me a sound scolding. "I was thinking of having you dressing yourself up, but maybe with a run in your tights, or your arm bent at weird angles trying to put your bra on. That sort of thing."

Bella snorted derisively. "You know, Edward, it's because of poor women like me that bra makers everywhere have invented the front clasp bra. Awkward arm angles avoided."

I pretended I didn't hear a thing. Knowing full well she was mocking me, I continued speaking, increasing my volume slightly. "Additionally, I know you young women enjoy confining yourselves to a luxurious bubble bath with aromatic soaps when you are stressed—"

"I'm more of a shower girl, myself." Seeing my face, she added, "Sorry. Keep talking."

She was right; I sounded ridiculous. Disheartened, I began a different train of thought. "I bought some 'costumes' for you to wear."

"Were they absurdly expensive?"

"Naturally," I smiled angelically. "Only the best for my Bella."

Her face contorted, but was quickly smoothed itself out. "Let's see then."

I pulled out a rack, ripping off some of the French tags inconspicuously. I had a feeling she wouldn't appreciate a reminder of exactly how insanely priced most of the scraps of lace and satin were. However, her sharp eyes spotted one still hanging on one of my favourite pieces, and she glared at me. I said nothing. Rosalie, bless her soul, ordered them for me, sparing me the embarrassment and potential for awkward situations.

Bella flipped through them silently, pausing sometimes to rake over it with what I hoped was appreciation in her eyes, sometimes wrinkling her nose with distaste. But what cam out of her mouth was a complete surprise. "How did you know my size?"

"I think you underestimate how much I watch you." I told her quietly. "And, besides, my mother owned a tailoring shop. Naturally, I was employed for several years before I quit in a fit of adolescent rebellion. I was pretty good at it actually; I can guess anyone's measurements at an accuracy of around two centimetres either way."

Bella stared at me with an expression I couldn't quite place. Her lips curved slightly, and her head shook. "Is there anything you can't do?"

My answering smile was harsh, cruelly taunting. Her shock at my abrupt change of mood was apparent, but I didn't have the heart to reassure her, to tell her she didn't say anything wrong. "I can't forgive." And I turned away from Bella.

I had walked a few steps before her voice stopped me. "You can never make up your mind. Sometimes, you look at me impassively as if I'm just an object. You like controlling people. You feel that it gives you power, which is a comfort because you don't think you have power over your own life. But sometimes, and it's enough to keep me coming back, you're intensely passionate, and I think you must feel at least a faint echo of what I feel for you." Unknowingly, my body was twisting back to face her. "You're always trying to prove me wrong. I know you've had a bitter experience with some girl in the past that you haven't ever recovered from, but not every girl is a heartbreaker. I want to help you heal."

My heart wrenched as a single, crystalline tear slid its way down her reddening cheeks.

"Tell me that I'm no different from any girl you've met and let me walk away."

In my head, I waged war. It was excruciating to be the cause of Bella's pain, and a part of me wanted to free her, to spare the inevitable hurt that would come if she were to bind herself to me. But I was selfish. My own desires, my own helpless fascination with Bella lead me to an important conclusion.

"Don't go. Please. I wish you could feel the complexity of what I'm feeling right now. I'm stuck in the past, but all I want to do is move on. I don't know myself. All I know is that you are the only thing in this world that I care about, that's more important to me than life and art. I'm willing to change, for you to make me better. I have isolation issues, I realize that, and I can be cruel and indifferent. But please, don't leave me." My voice wavered with its emotion and I finally comprehended just how important Bella was to me now.

She moved closer until I could count the tiny droplets of water that clung to her lashes like dew. Her hand moved upwards, her fingers sweeping across my cheekbones in an act of utter trust.

I took her hand in mine, admiring the smooth perfection. Gently, carefully, as if she were made of glass, I placed it on my chest, letting her feel the uneven pounding of my heart. She glanced down at where we were connected. Her hand closed, a fistful of my shirt cupped inside. Her dark eyes, when they met mine, were brimming with emotion. My own eyes, in response, softened.

"Bella," I whispered. Her name was a prayer, was _my_ prayer.

Her face tipped up, washing my face with her warm breath. Finally, I touched my lips to hers, pulling back to ascertain her reaction. Her eyes were closed, the lids slightly darker than the rest of her skin. I bent down again, but this time Bella's hand welded me to her lips. We moved rhythmically, the heat traveling between us, molding us into one being. It was our first shared kiss and I wanted to savour its sweetness that sang of love and tumultuous emotions. My tongue prodded her lips, asking for entrance, and she opened up to me. It was our first shared kiss; not unexpected like the one she'd gifted me with, nor tinged with a desperate edge as the one I stole, but a mutual agreement, a unity.

I broke away, panting, my forehead still connected to hers. Bella's eyes were molten chocolate, warm and filled with a dreamy longing that was surely reflected in my own eyes.

Her lips curved kindly, shyly, full of tender sweetness.

"Stay," I said, unthinkingly. When she did not protest, I continued. "I have a room, with a bed."

It didn't come out right; Bella's eyes darkened in recognition and pulled away.

"No, it's not like that," I stammered, clasping her arms and forcing her to look at me. "I don't want to inconvenience you. I know you have to take the bus back and forth, but you it's late and you are welcome to stay here. I don't sleep much anyways."

Still, she remained unmoved. "Is this a frequent occurrence? Models crashing on your bed?" Her lips were pale, trembling slightly when she spoke.

I recoiled as if slapped and let go of her arms. She moved away, dark eyes still fixed on me. Her cruel words left me struggling. I fought my natural desire to lash out. It was not a rational conclusion that Bella had come to, but it was a believable explanation. "Please don't make assumptions. I haven't ever offered my bed to anyone else. You're different to me."

I could see from the set of her mouth that she was repenting. "That was uncalled for. But it's not every day that a guy invites you into his bed and doesn't mean anything by it. I'd very much like to take you up on your offer."

As she showered—I lent her some clothes that had shrunk too much in the wash—I set up a makeshift bed out of wooden planks and a few layers of blankets. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but if I imagined a canopy of stars, it was about the same hardness as bare ground.

"That doesn't look very comfortable."

I opened one eye to see Bella standing in the doorway of the attached bathroom, ridiculously beautiful in my Dartmouth t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants.

"It's not," I sighed, closing my eyes.

In the silence that followed, I thought Bella left. But she was still standing there, deliberating. "You should sleep in your bed."

My eyes flashed open to glare at her. "And you're going to sleep on the ground? No."

"A compromise then." Her eyes did not show any hint of defeat. Her chin jutted out in defiance. "We both sleep on the bed. There's more than enough room."

I almost drooled at the thought of my downy mattress. And I definitely had ulterior motives.

"Just no funny business," she added. I groaned loudly. Bella's eyes glimmered in response.

She disappeared. After a few minutes of shifting on my hard bed, I couldn't take it anymore. Casting the blanket aside, I visited my bedroom.

Bella made herself at home, the lamp at the side casting a yellow pool of light over the book she was reading. I smiled weakly at her when she looked up. She pulled one corner of the blanket up in invitation. I slid in beside her, easing her into my arms. The perfume of her hair filled my senses.

--

(Spoilers ahead! Alert! Alert!)

What I thought of Twilight: Overall, it was better than I expected. But I had a couple of major issues with the movie. a) They never really show Bella and Edward's relationship developing. I mean, if I hadn't read the book, I would've summarized it as "Bella sees Edward. Edward is supposedly gorgeous. He stalks her and tells her to stay away. She likes him even more." They never have a real conversation until Edward tell her about his family. b) Bella was in her underwear when they first kissed! Okay, that's nothing big, but I couldn't think of anything else...But that made me laugh so much. I actually laughed through the entire movie. c) Kristin Stewart's expression bug me. It's not that she isn't a good actor. I just don't like her acting style. And I think staring with a gaping mouth never does anyone any good. It usually makes you look mentally inept. And Robert Pattinson talks as if he's some adorable ghost from a Korean drama, but without the adorable. And the sparkling looked like it cost almost nothing. It was tacky!

What I liked: Billy was adorable! Ridiculously good-looking for an old man, in my opinion. Er, older man. And Billy Burke, aka Charlie, was absolutely hilarious. And I adored the Forks crew. I like how multicultural they were. And they were much more teenager-ish. In Twilight, they all seem so mature. And Jessica's "This dress makes my boobs look good" had all the girls in the theatre cracking up. Oh, I wanted to say more, but I forget. Maybe later...

Meanwhile, leave me a review!


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you, as always, to my beta, sispepperell for being quick and thorough. And to Kenza who answers all my random questions...**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 16: Night

My nose nuzzled the hollow beneath her throat, tracing her jaw line up to her ear with my nose. Unable to resist her sweet-smelling skin, I would occasionally lay a kiss on her. I buried my face in her hair, inhaling her strawberry scent, determined to commit it to memory if ever the day came when she ran away, never to look back again. I flipped onto my back, pulling her on top of me. Her arms wound around me as her head rested on my chest, the shadows on her face hinting at a small smile. Although I could no longer pepper her face and neck with nips and kisses, it was a comfort to feel Bella's warm cheeks pressed against my thin shirt, listening to my thudding heartbeat.

I lifted my hand from where it was curled around Bella's waist to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Transfixed, I watched the delicate veins of her neck stutter and restart in its own complicated pattern. I bent my head to place my lips upon her vein, feeling connected to her by this vessel of life that was filling me with its steady vibrations.

I traced Bella's body with my fingers, careful not to touch her in any way that might be considered inappropriate. Instead, I saw her the way a blind man would, getting to know the angle at which her hips curved and the strong softness of her shoulders. Beneath her thin frame, I could feel her tiny bones. Fragile.

"Edward?" Bella whispered into my chest, her voice afraid of what? Perhaps it was the fear of destroying this rare peace between us.

"Hmm?" I murmured in her hair as I drew small circles on her shoulder.

"I…I want to know." She told me.

Drunk on Bella's intoxicating scent, I couldn't concentrate. "Know what exactly?"

"You're…" Her voice faltered. I pressed her closer to me, bending my head down so it was level with her ear.

"Yes?" I breathed, my nose once again skimming her cheekbones.

"You're making it hard to concentrate," Bella gasped, her fists against my chest.

Immediately, I began disengaging myself, feeling contrite for my overly friendly gestures. She did warn me; no funny business. "Should I…?"

She clung on obstinately. But I untangled my legs from hers anyways, moving away enough to see her through the faint streams of moonlight that seeped through the curtains. Fondly, I brushed some hair aside to better read her eyes.

Bella sighed, gazing at me wistfully. "I didn't want you to stop." My heart warmed and I relaxed a little closer to her.

"Will you tell me about her? The other woman? I know she did something terrible to you. That's why you're so bitter. I don't know if you've noticed, but every time I touch you, you shudder unconsciously, and for a second I think you're going to pull away. Then you calm down and smile timidly, but I know it's not me you're thinking of."

There was an ache pulsing beneath her voice. Her eyes were desolate, breathtaking in their magnetic force, but I didn't want to be drawn in. Not this time. I rolled away, my stomach churning at the accuracy at which Bella had marked my emotions. She was too damn observant for her own good.

"I don't want to talk about it," I told my door brusquely.

A childish hand tugged at my arm and I mistakenly looked down. Bella's doe eyes pleaded to me, beseeching I tell the story. I wrenched my arm and eyes away, trying in vain to seal my heart off.

"No," I said quietly, more gently this time. "One day. But not tonight."

Her small hands released me and I instantly felt repentant.

"I'll be waiting anxiously for that day to come. Remember, Edward, that people want to help, especially those who love you."

Was she indirectly telling me she loved me? My heart soared too high in that brief moment. I grabbed at it, weighed it down. I was a pessimist. Cloud nine didn't exist.

Nevertheless, Bella's request was not unreasonable. I made up my mind that she deserved to know, but when I'd turned around, I was greeted with the most beautiful sight: Bella, her hair mussed in fitful sleep, hands clenched around a fistful of my shirt. Her lips were slightly parted, curving up in response to her dreams. She was absurdly peaceful asleep, the paleness of her skin glowing an eerie white. When she stirred, I found myself leaning above her, watching her closely with my lips turned up in reverent worship.

As she moved, sometimes the blanket would creep down, making its way down her chest. From my higher vantage point, I could see her collarbone peeping out on the one side where the t-shirt pulled away.

"Edward," she cried out, clearly and coherently as if she were awake.

My head jerked up. Bella still appeared to be sleeping. I banished her voice as a figment of my overactive imagination. I almost managed to doze off before she startled me again.

"Don't go, Edward," she mumbled.

I gazed in shock at the amazing woman beside me. Her hand was reaching out, searching for something…I grabbed her hand in mine, noting the immediate sense of fulfillment now coursing through my body.

"I'm here, Bella," I told her softly.

Her lashes fluttered before her face smoothed into an angelic calm. Even in her sleep, her grip was strong and unrelenting. The first rays of sun crept down my walls to replace the night's shadow, touching her face with its golden fingers.

Somehow, I fell asleep, waking up with my body aligned with hers so that we were spooning. I hummed into her ear absently, enjoying the fragrance of her hair and the peace that settled finely over us. In my head, I dedicated a song to her, filled with melancholy chords of yearning and the timid chords of learning.

I stopped humming when I felt her stir beneath me. Another day with Bella in her gloriously revealing outfits as I stared at her curves unabashedly. I smirked, euphoric at the thought.

I brushed a strand of hair back, beginning to speak almost unconsciously. "I'd been home-schooled all my life, never took any summers off." My voice was hoarse from a night without use. Bella was too still beneath me; I'd captured her attention, but would she forgive me? "I'd never noticed other people much, especially girls. But when my parents made the decision for me to go to high school in America…She was there and absolutely stunning. I was a senior at sixteen by then and she was every guy's walking dream. Blond, tall, unattainable. Physically, she was two years older than me." The bitterness was transparent when I spoke. "We got caught up in all the glories of first love. Until one day when she was wrapped up in another guy."

I let out a frustrated sigh. Here was the part I never understood, never could forgive her for. "And, you know, I would've felt a little better if he was a great guy, better than me. But he was an idiot. She always said these snarky things about his dimwittedness, his mental ineptness. Yet he was the guy she chose over me." My throat closed and I shook my head, still haunted by the sight of her raspberry lips on him, her blonde hair gleaming with red underneath in the flashing lights of my car passing by. Bella turned slowly to face me. "The grudge is more about pride than love. I guess I have a superiority complex."

I tried to smile at her, but it only came out as a grimace. Surprisingly, she wasn't staring at me with pity or revulsion, but smile that seemed vacant except for the sympathy in her eyes.

When she did not speak, I coughed lightly. "Can you forgive me?"

She seemed genuinely shocked. "For what? There's nothing to forgive. But I'm grateful for this insight into your mind."

I choked on my joy. "You're not upset that…"

"Well, obviously I'm upset that you have difficulties trusting women because of our experience with her, but I honestly don't see what there is to forgive. Unless you love her more than you love me…?" She cocked an eyebrow coquettishly, and although I knew she was joking, there was a serious undercurrent to her question.

"No," I hastily interrupted. "I've never loved anyone as much as you." But even as I spoke the truest words ever said, I wondered what I would do if Tanya were to reappear in my life. It is difficult to forgive and forget the first person entrusted with your heart.

"Good," Bella beamed at me, leaning in for a quick peck on the lips. She settled contentedly on my chest.

Once again, I began singing Bella's lullaby under my breath, eliciting a raised eyebrow from her direction.

"It's a song I'm writing. For you."

Her eyes moistened but she looked away before I could see the path her tears made. "That's really touching, Edward." She turned back to me to give me another sweet kiss, this one more prolonged than the last. Again, she pulled away too soon, and I was left an idiot, my lips still puckered and face still tipped up.

Bella grinned endearingly at me. "Do you have a toothbrush I can borrow?"

--

I'd like to take the time now to thank everyone that's reviewed/pm'ed me. I'm getting back to you, honestly I am. Until then, you know you want to...review!


	17. Chapter 17

**It's been a lot longer than planned. But have you ever sent an email without the attachment...Yep, that's how it went down. That delayed one day. But thanks to Sisi who is always kind and prompt.  
**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 17: Discoveries

"I changed my mind."

In the corner of my studio, I saw Bella wobble in a pair of heels before settling down on the ground. She groaned loudly for my benefit. I couldn't blame her—this was going to be the fifth costume change in less than an hour.

"I don't object to you nixing these death traps"—she gestured to her feet—"but I'd like to know what's wrong with the current outfit I'm wearing."

I glanced briefly at Bella's ensemble, a silvery blouse that barely reached her black lace covered butt. I began pacing, my hand moving occasionally to dishevel my hair.

"It's too…sexy." But everything Bella wore was sexy.

She groaned again and laid down, her legs still propped up. "And there's something wrong with that because…?"

I joined her on the ground, leaving a foot of open air between us. Involuntarily, my hand reached out to brush the satin sleeve. "The theme is innocence, remember?"

She rolled over to face me and I reminded myself that I was not supposed to be peeping down her shirt. "Your first painting of me was hardly innocent," she scoffed.

I deliberated what she said. "That's true, but it has a very intimate feeling, almost as if I'm intruding on an innocent moment."

"Exactly. Why can't this costume represent an intrusion on an innocent moment?"

My neck craned to look at her again. "It doesn't seem like an innocent moment. Your blouse, despite the fact that it shimmers, still appears to be a men's blouse. If I saw you wearing that, I would assume you spent the night. Which, as we both know, is not a very innocent supposition at all."

Her chin jerked out. "And yet, last night was very innocent," Bella countered.

I was silent. Her eyebrow rose as if to challenge me. "Alright. But that's not the point. The point is that I refuse to paint you wearing that. So if you would kindly change—"

"Then your theme isn't innocence at all. It's voyeurism."

My tone was a little sharper than I intended. "I am not a voyeur."

Bella pressed her lips together apologetically. "What I meant is you're going for ignorance, not innocence. The way women sometimes underestimate their sexuality."

I nodded slowly. "I guess."

We settled into another comfortable silence. Lost deep in my thoughts, I was startled when her hand tentatively touched mine. My hand jerked, but I didn't pull away. I stared hard at the wall to my right, away from Bella. Her hand touched mine again, but this time I entwined my fingers in hers.

"Bella, how opposed are you to posing for a shower scene?" I was too afraid to glance at her face in case it was covered in revulsion.

Her voice was wary, but not yet disgusted. "Bath or shower?"

I turned to her. Her eyes squinted up at me shrewdly. "Does it matter? Shower, more likely. It's more environmentally friendly and less cliché. Besides, I thought you were more a shower kind of girl?" I grinned impishly at her.

"What do you have in mind?" she sighed.

I made it up as I went, not noticing that I had sat up and was gesturing wildly with my arms. "A frosted shower door and your silhouette through it as you shampoo your hair. Or maybe, you've left it open a bit so that it's not as steamed up inside. Better yet, your arm should be sticking out, groping for your shampoo bottle that lies inches from your grasp as your face presses against the glass." I was lost in my imaginings; I didn't register the disbelief on Bella's face and factor it into the equation.

"Why do you always want me to be in the most ridiculous of poses? And does this mean I have to stand in the shower for a few weeks as you paint? That can't be good for your canvas—your wood will warp." She'd sat up to hear my proposal and was now turning a steady shade of red in her indignation.

"It will only take a few days now that this is your full-time job, and I wasn't planning to paint in the bathroom. I have a photographic memory." I opened my eyes wide, turning the full force of my eyes on her. "But will you do pose for me? Please?" My lower lip jutted out.

She covered her face as if it could shield her from my charms. "Fine!" she grumbled. "Just don't ever give me that face again."

My smile all but engulfed my face. "I love you." I pounced on her and began placing kiss after kiss on her smooth skin. She stiffened beneath me, but I paid no heed. Only when I made it down to her shoulder did I pause to contemplate the weight of what I had just called out.

I swore loudly, rolling off of Bella. Her face was turned to the side, not meeting my eyes. I laced my fingers through hers. Still no response.

I smiled feebly at her profile. "Cat's out of the bag…" I trailed off. Abruptly, I was afraid because Bella's silence could only mean one thing. I felt foolish. I was about to withdraw my hand when Bella clamped hard onto it.

"Do you mean it?" She was finally facing me, her eyes shining with unshed tears, their chocolate depths radiating with hope.

I took a minute to think. Did I really love Bella? She was—in danger of being overdramatic—my reason for living, the apple of my eye, the brilliant meteor streaking through the sky at night. She made me laugh; she was beautiful, thoughtful, intelligent. With her, I could come to grips of who I was and who I wanted her to shape me into. More importantly, she was offering to return my love.

"Yes," I replied simply. "You are my life now."

--

"Angela sounded ridiculously happy when I told her I was moving out. I think she's hoping that Ben will move in instead." She shuddered delicately. "She promised me that she wouldn't touch any of my things in my room because I'm still paying a quarter of the rent just in case someone I know needs to crash," Bella babbled happily to me.

We let ourselves in since Angela told us she wouldn't be there—"I had to put up with her for four years, and she doesn't even have the courtesy to say goodbye," Bella grumbled—and trekked immediately to Bella's room. Just being in her familiar sunny room made me smile at the memories we made.

Bella was not as sentimental. She pulled out a suitcase near the size of her and began throwing in clothes. I watched, amused.

"I always thought you were a person who neatly folded their clothes," I commented lightly.

Her rushed packing didn't slow. "I used to, before Alice. But she gave me clear instructions that my clothes were to be hung, not folded. You should've heard the scolding when she found a Versace blouse folded." Bella shuddered delicately. "You never would've thought such a small woman could be so terrifying. But that's Alice for you."

I contented myself with wandering around the room, something I had not done before, feeling before I knew her that it would be an invasion of privacy. "Is this your family?" I touched a photo in a cheap plastic frame of a family of three, Bella being the bundle in the smiling woman's arms.

Bella glanced over. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, it is. It's the only picture I have of my entire family together. My parents are divorced and neither of them is much for reunions. Especially after my mom got remarried. That's just an awkward situation to avoid."

I nodded in agreement even though I had no personal experience in such matters. However, this was the most I'd gotten out of Bella on her family and I was anxious to press for more.

"Who did you live with?"

"My mother mostly," Bella answered absently, moving to rifle through her dresser. She dumped the entire contents of a drawer into the suitcase. I was surprised how much baggage it could hold. "I did spend some time with Charlie after Renee got married, but small town life isn't for me."

"Where does your dad live?"

She pushed back her hair and wiped her forehead. I felt mildly guilty for being idle, but…"In a tiny town called Forks in Washington State. It's almost never sunny and rarely rises to t-shirt weather. The only good thing about that place was Jacob. He was my salvation."

My throat constricted. A man. Or more accurately, he was a boy when Bella knew him. "Jacob?"

Bella didn't notice the unnatural evenness of my voice. She was now stacking up shoebox after shoebox and savagely cramming them in. "He was my best friend. He lived on the reservation a few miles away from Forks. There was a beach." She snorted. "Can you imagine a beach without sun? But he was a great guy. It's too bad we lost touch."

Nevertheless, I was relieved. I could imagine him in my head, wild in a Native American way, teaching Bella ways of nature. "And so you moved in with your mother?"

"Just for my last year of high school. She insisted, and I was relieved to go, even if it did mean losing Jacob. Charlie was upset to see me go. I was more concerned that he would starve. The only thing he can cook is pasta and boiled eggs. Can't even fry them. But Florida weather is more my type."

So she didn't love Jacob enough to stay. I sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever Higher Being was listening.

"Can you get me that box under my bed?"

I had a feeling Bella was uncomfortable with my questions. She might've been distracting me, but I took the distraction gladly. "Sure."

I knelt on the dusty ground, my arm making sweeps under her bed. Sure enough, I bumped into a box. Pulling it out, my eyes fell immediately onto the vibrant colours of the paper on top. Bella's pastels.

Surreptitiously, I turned my back to her so she wouldn't see me digging through her precious art. The first drawing was one of a vibrant sunset, but with an interesting architectural quality to it because of the buildings rising up in front. Her colours were blended smoothly, her lines distinct where they needed to be. Greedily, I flipped to the next one. It was a park, dappled light coming through the green leaves of trees, a few children playing with a ball in the background, a man on a bench in the foreground. Her technique was excellent and there was a peaceful mood infused in both pieces.

I flipped to the next work. My breath caught. I stared at a perfect likeness of me. In her drawing, I was frowning slightly with my head turned to the side, brow furrowed, squinting into something just beyond. I recognized it as my thinking face. Addicted, I looked at the next of Bella's pastels. Me again. But this time, I was smiling crookedly, my eyes gleaming mischievously.

"What's taking so long?" Bella wanted to know.

I began cramming everything back into her box, her pastels, her drawings, but in my haste scattered them around—

"Edward!" She snatched the pile of drawings from my hand, her face more embarrassed than angry. Then again, red could mean either of the two.

"I'm sorry, Bella," I apologized profusely. "The box was open and I couldn't resist."

Her eyes would not meet mine.

"Bella," I pleaded, tilting her chin up. Her eyes flashed to mine, too blank to be comforting. "Can you forgive me? They were beautiful." I smiled at her gently, but I was wracked with pain inside.

She jerked her chin away. "Of course I can forgive you. I'm just…Now you know how obsessed I am with you."

I burst out in laughter. Bella shot me a look reminding me that I was not being very sensitive of her feelings. I crushed her to my chest, nuzzling her hair. "I didn't mean it like that, love. But the obsession is two-sided, I can assure you. Would you like to see the many doodles of you covering my bills?"

Bella relaxed, a smile quirking up. "That would make me feel better."

"Excellent," I replied, dragging us both to our feet. "I get to keep my pastel portraits, correct?"

She glanced down at the pile in her hands. Chewing her lips, she shrugged apologetically. "Actually, I was planning to get rid of them."

"Nonsense," I told her brusquely. "They are hanging on my wall." I reached to grab for them.

She cradled them closer to her. "With your stuff? You want to hang our drawings side by side? We both know who's going to outshine who."

I rolled my eyes. "Stop being absurd. Those are exquisite. But if you wish, we can hang our art on separate walls."

Bella pursed her lips in thoughts. Finally, she surrendered her artwork to me. I grinned triumphantly. "Ready to go?"

"Ready as I ever will be," she sighed.

I took her hand casually, as if it were easy as breathing. And it was, almost. "You must promise me to draw another portrait of me. I want to pose for you." I was sure that as an artist, Bella understood the intimacy of connecting with the model. I wanted to be under her scrutiny, to feel the intensity of her stare as if I were the only thing that mattered to her in the world.

Bella shook her head. "I don't need to be drawing you to feel that way." She leaned up to brush my lips with hers. I smiled. There was nothing else to say.

--

Check out Sisi's community! I'm on staff, so you should be able to access it from my profile, I think. They're all complete fanfics with 1000+ reviews (or one-shots with 100+ reviews)...Some excellent stuff to read if you're ever looking to kill that nonexistent spare time...

As always, review! I always reply...(I'm getting to it).


	18. Chapter 18

**As always, thanks to my beta, sispepperell, for her thorough speediness. And thanks to Kenza as well, my go-to Paris expert.**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 18: Visitors

I exhaled slowly, savouring the warmth of the body in my arms. Her hair fluttered, tickling my cheeks, and I inhaled. Strawberries…

My eyes opened slowly, wary of the explosion of light my gauzy curtains couldn't hold back. I smiled widely in appreciation at the sight before me. Bella's arms rested lightly beside her head on my chest. Her mouth was parted slightly, sending hot air and sensations across me. The paleness of her skin looked translucent in the pure morning light, slight bluish veins pulsing slightly just beneath the surface. In contrast, her mahogany hair was dark and dramatic, fanning the whole front of my t-shirt. One of her legs was entwined around my own, the sheets pushed down below her rear, a tiny sliver of skin showing between her tank top and shorts.

My heart thumped loudly, unevenly, and I hushed it, warning that it might wake Bella with its disjointed rhythm. It, however, ignored me as it always did in Bella' presence, trying to beat its way into her. Bella slept on.

Hesitantly, I lifted a hand to trace her sliver of skin. It was softer than it appeared, smoother than anything I'd ever felt. I stroked carefully, aching with love for the beautiful angel sprawled on top of me.

My stomach grumbled insistently, waking Bella and embarrassing me.

She rolled around, finally settling in the crook of my arm, her face tilted towards me. There was a faint trace of a smile around her lips, but her eyes remained closed. "Is it breakfast time?" Her voice was thick with sleep.

I felt my face soften. "Not if you're still tired."

"Good," she grumbled, burying her face deeper in my chest. My arm tightened around her.

It was a few more minutes until she resurfaced. Her lips were turned up lazily in a sleepy smile, but this time her doe eyes blinked up at me. "Good morning," she said.

I grinned at her, taking the time to memorize her face fresh with energy, bare of any makeup, her eyes still crusted. "Good morning. What's on the agenda today?"

"Don't you have to work?"

I gently lifted my hand from the small of her back to trace her cheekbones, to stroke the flesh that burned beneath my hand. "I'd rather not."

She beamed beatifically at me, repositioning herself so she was straddled above me. My hands automatically went to her hips to steady her.

"Did I mention"—punctuated by a kiss to the forehead—"how much"—nose—"I"—cheek—"love"—other cheek—"you?" Finally, the lips.

I devoured her sweet breath eagerly, not caring that my breath was probably foul enough to chase a skunk away. All that mattered was that slip of tongue interlocking with mine in my mouth.

"Sorry," I panted after breaking apart. "That was out of line. I should've brushed my teeth first, at the very least."

Bella laid her head down on my shoulder. "It's one of my best virtues. I can ignore whatever funny smells are emitted from the other person's mouth."

I struggled to maintain a light teasing tone to match hers. "And what about Mike? Any funny smells from him."

Bella didn't meet my eyes. Instead, she traced circles and stars on my chest. I was getting distracted. Grabbing her hand mid-circle, I asked again, "Did you two ever…?"

Now she looked at me, but with horror. I felt relief wash through me, bathing me in an almost euphoric feeling. "No! Of course not. We kissed but that's as much action as I've ever been featured in."

"So you've never—"

"No. You know I didn't think a conversation could get more awkward than the one time my dad tried to give me a sex talk, but I think this one is definitely tied." Somehow in the last few minutes, we'd separated, lying side by side. She shook out her hair and then rolled back to me. "Have you ever...with her, I mean?"

"No," I replied quietly. "Never."

I held her eyes for several moments until she broke the contact. She got out of bed, grabbing a few toiletries before walking to the bathroom. Before disappearing, Bella smiled and winked, letting me know I was forgiven. I heard the water stutter and start and then my imagination ran wild.

She'd left the door open, as always. Bella claimed that my bathroom was in danger of moulding from the humidity—I liked my showers scalding and long. I sighed, wishing it the open door was an invitation rather than a method of prevention. But then again, her promise to take things slow would probably be annihilated almost instantly. I wondered if she held me to that promise as well.

Checking the clock, I also rolled out of bed, throwing on a t-shirt and jeans, my classic painting ensemble. I started a pot of coffee, knowing it was an easy way to get into Bella's good graces.

The distinctive jangling of keys forced my bowed head up. Bella was dressed up in a flowing blouse and pencil skirt, a touch of makeup smudged on her lips and around her eyes. Her purse was out—the "special occasion" one, she deemed it—and she was rummaging through it.

A lump congealed in my throat. Where was she going dressed like that? "Are you going somewhere?"

Bella glanced up at me, brushing the hair out of her face. She dissected my pained expression. "It's not what you're thinking. Alice is coming to town today and she wants me to pick her up from the airport. That's a whole week earlier than she told me before, and she only let me know yesterday. What a friend."

I frowned, although I was complacent with her answer. "Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"

Her head ducked down again, but if her face was the same colour as her revealed ear, her face was flaming. "You distracted me."

I smiled in memory of the previous night spent cuddling and kissing. It was innocent and yet wholly intimate. "Did you need a ride?"

"No. You stay home and paint."

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "And you're going to get there, how?"

She took in a deep breath, drawing herself to her full height. "Paris happens to have an excellent taxi system, especially compared to small American towns that never have any cabs prowling the streets," Bella told me, her voice ringing with dignity. She deflated. "And I wouldn't want you to get behind on you work. You know when your deadline is, right?"

I rolled my eyes. "I can't work anyways. No model, remember?"

Bella gnawed on her lip. "Well, when you put it that way…"

**

Three hours later, Bella and a very chipper Alice gossiped in the back seat. We were thoroughly stuck in traffic. I sighed yet again, drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. Jasper, in the passenger seat, shot me a sympathetic grimace.

"You found us an apartment, didn't you, Bella?" Alice was saying in the backseat.

"How could I have? You told me you were coming _yesterday_." Bella sounded weary.

I could see Alice's answering out in the rearview mirror. "But that's so much time," Alice responded, flabbergasted.

I turned my snicker into a cough. Jasper and I had already formed a silent bond, mostly consisting of meaningful glances and eyes rolling. This time, we caught each other's eye before turning to our respective windows, little smile that threatened to turn into laughter sneaking onto our faces.

"Maybe for you, Alice," Bella said, amused. "But not all of us have your prophetic skills."

Alice seemed to give that some thought before beaming. "But you have somewhere we can crash for the night before I can scour some newspapers, right?"

"Do we?" Bella's question was directed towards me.

I tapped the gas pedal, lurching in time with the traffic. "Well, we could probably set something up in the studio…" No, we couldn't. Unless Bella was willing to give up the bed for a nap on canvas. She'd probably do it too, being as selfless as she was. But I wouldn't allow it.

"Actually, I think you can sleep in my dorm. Angela wouldn't mind," Bella interrupted. "It's only a double bed, but you're small. It could work."

Alice shrugged her shoulders. "I don't mind much. But where are you going to sleep? Not the couch I hope."

"Oh, I'll just stay at Edward's."

Alice's eyes darted from Bella to me. Her face lit up in a mischievous grin. My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. Good thing they weren't having a sleepover. Crisis averted.

"What are we going to do tomorrow? You're going to show us the city, aren't you?" Alice was more eager than a child half her age.

"I don't know." Bella's voice was hesitant. "Edward has to work."

"And?" Alice prompted. "What does that have to do with you?"

Her eyes met mine anxiously. If I was reading her correctly, she didn't want Alice to know about her job as my model. "I have a box at the Palais Garnier. If you're interested in seeing any opera, you're welcome to join Bella and I." They didn't need to know it was a spur of the moment plan. "I believe _Tristan and Isolde_ is playing tomorrow. I hope you like Wagner." Bella shot me a relieved smile. I looked away to not arise any suspicion.

Alice beamed at me from the backseat, actually leaning forward to touch me on the shoulder. I tried to ignore my natural instinct to shy away and sat perfectly still. "Perfect! But I don't have anything to wear. You know what this means, Bella?"

Bella groaned, Jasper snickered, and I smiled knowingly into my side mirror.

"Shopping," Bella muttered darkly.

--

I originally had them all chorusing "shopping" together and eventually decided it was cute but juvenile. This chapter is a little short, very true, but the next update should be in a few days. Hopefully. It's just lately I've been busy with concerts and whatnot. Now for sleep...

Leave me a review! (please)


	19. Chapter 19

**It's been too long. But I have many excuses, the most recent being I spent nearly an hour trying to get the Internet so I could post today. That's how much I love you all. The usual thanks to sisipepperell and Kenza. What would I do without you?**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 19: Palais

Precisely three hours before we were scheduled to leave for the opera, Alice whisked Bella into her room. Angela had kindly vacated the dorm for the day so that we would all have a place to stay with more comfortable seats than my sparse furniture. Jasper and I lounged in front of the tiny television screen, neither of us interested in the French drama with far too much flowery prose playing that minute. I, playing my role as a host of some sort even though I wasn't in my own house, let Jasper have the remote.

After several minutes of mind-numbing torture, he had flipped through each and every one of the few channels Angela and Bella received, pausing occasionally before flicking away. It was laughable that we spent nearly 10 minutes watching the TV Guide, especially considering most of the channels were not accessible.

Finally, Jasper clicked off the pixelated screen. I revelled in the resulting silence. I yawned and stretched, checking the clock with a tip of my head. Only twenty minutes had passed.

"Does Alice normally take this long to get ready?"

Jasper, now thumbing through Vogue, glanced up. "I think it's more of an interrogation than makeover." He tossed aside the magazine, reaching for Paris Match instead. The title screamed about James Dene's new movie coming out, and the mysterious woman seen with him on four separate occasions.

"Oh." I leaned back, jiggling my legs just to do something. I picked up a random magazine. "Why did you and Alice decide to move to Paris?"

He shrugged, but smiled kindly at me. "Alice is a designer and Paris is fashion central. Honestly, I'd follow her anywhere."

The loving devotion was apparent in his voice. Was I as obvious? "But what about your job? It can't be easy moving away from friends and family."

"My job is easily transportable. I have a degree in American history from Yale. Getting a job isn't a problem. If all else fails, I'll probably become a professor. As for keeping in contact, it's a lot easier now than it was in the past. I never saw my family much anyways. We live on opposite sides of the country."

"Are you from Texas or something?" There was a slight twang about the way he spoke.

Jasper grinned sheepishly. "You should hear me when I get agitated." I couldn't imagine the calm man angry. "Then my roots really show. But what about you? You've got this strange burry English accent."

I grimaced. "I lived in England until I was 13. My family then moved to Chicago where I was enrolled in a fantastically snobby school. The kids there liked to rib me because of my accent. It's softened a bit. I've definitely picked up some lazier habits of speech from you Americans."

It was surprising how fast the time passed as Jasper and I talked. He was a good guy, thoughtful and sharp, with this uncanny ability to put anybody at ease. I could tell he got into Yale based on his brains rather than the thickness of his parents' wallet, but judging from his jeans that were casual but expensively cut, he was hardly shabby in that department. He told me intensely personal things, like how he met Alice—she'd just strolled up to him in Missouri and declared, "I've been waiting for you."—and I told him about meeting Bella, about Carlisle's kindness, about my parents' death. His sympathy was never fake or extreme but cut with an undercurrent of empathy.

I heard the occasional giggle or thud, most likely from Bella dropping something, but when it became eerily quiet, I got distracted.

"Do you think they're done in there?" I half-rose out of my seat, eager to see Bella after long hours of separation.

Jasper shook his head at me, gesturing for me to remain seated. "Alice will evict you. They'll show themselves in time."

Two long minutes later, Alice emerged, her spiky hair a halo around her head. Odd. For someone as image conscientious as Alice, I expected her hair to be arranged a little more carefully, a little more helmet-like. Clearly, the spikiness was not a product of restless airplane sleep, as I had attributed it to before. The wild and unexpected arrangement of her hair contrasted sharply with the demure green dress she had draped on.

Perhaps demure was too mild a word. It was beautiful with interesting ruffled detail down the front and side, and enough asymmetry to make it edgy, but it wasn't loud and it didn't demand unwanted attention. It was tasteful and surprisingly suited for an opera. Around her neck was a simple strand of pearls. Maybe my doubt of Alice's restraint was unfounded, but it was not an unreasonable fear of having her go overboard. She was, as I'd discovered so far, very thorough and prone to excess.

But Bella stepped out from the shadows and all analytical thinking ceased to be. Her hair was swept upwards, revealing her pale slender neck. Her collarbones were left bare of any dangling jewellery, but a few large and rather ornate diamonds that I suspected belonged to Alice were embedded in her ears. Her eyes were outlined and smudged with dark make-up for a popping effect, a smudge of lipstick darkening her lips. Her dress was midnight blue, my favourite colour, and swept the floor when she walked. Her skin seemed like ivory cream in comparison. It was a simple dress, cut to show off Bella's slim figure, but was made of a lustrous fabric, hinting at expense.

"What do you think?" Alice asked, dragging Bella by the hand towards me. "I designed and made both dresses."

My brow puckered in confusion. "I thought you went shopping earlier today."

Alice beamed. "We did. For stuff that I don't make for her, like lingerie." She winked at me. Jasper smirked.

I gulped loudly. My eyes were still stuck on Bella. "You're very talented," I told Alice.

I reached out for Bella's hand, noticing it was slightly clammy to the touch. I leaned in to give her a soft kiss on the lips. I whispered, "You're beautiful, Bella."

Our hands swung loosely between us in the car ride over. Just over the din of moving cars, I heard Alice and Jasper's murmured endearments as they cuddled in the backseat. With my thumb, I traced the lines etched in Bella's palm.

When we arrived, I opened the door for a wide-eyed Bella, tossing the valet my keys.

Jasper and Alice headed through the doors, tickets clutched in their hands. They were a funny sight together, the difference in their heights almost comical. Bella stood in front of the majestic building long after they'd disappeared inside, gaping openly at the architecture.

I chuckled to myself. "I'd forgotten you were an art student. She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Bella nodded silently and continued to stare. "I had no idea the Palais Garnier was so gorgeous."

I turned with her to ogle the structure with all its graceful arches and old-fashioned charm. "It's one of the reasons I prefer it over the Opera Bastille. It was completed in 1875 after years of hard work. In 1896, one of the chandeliers that weighed over six tons fell, killing someone. That, and the underground lake, inspired Gaston Leroux to write _The Phantom of the Opera_. It's been restored since them, fitted with modern equipment and lighting. But the architecture remains the same; with its elaborately decorated friezes, columns and sculptures, many of which portray Greek deities. It may also be noted that there are bronze busts of Mozart, Beethoven, and other such great composers."

"Wow," was all Bella could say. "You should be a tour guide."

I shook my head emphatically. "Absolutely not. You know I have no patience for disrespectful tourists."

Gesturing, she slipped into my arms as I lead her into the Palais Garnier. Her head did not stop moving, her eyes roving constantly to take in the sights. She reached out a hand carefully to brush the handrail of the ornate staircase, rubbing her fingers together as if there was dust.

I pointed things out as we walked by them. "Notice the symmetry of this building. And there are many Baroque influences. As you can see, there is a copious amount of velvet and gold leaf used, as well as depictions of nymphs and cherubim. That, over there, was added in 1964, a work of Marc Chagall's. Its induction was quite controversial. People don't think it matches with the rest of the opera house."

Bella grinned slyly at me. "And what is your opinion of it?"

I frowned at it. "I think although it is a great piece of art, it destroyed the adhesive keeping up the original mural—the combined weight was too much, you see—and for that reason alone, I despise it."

Bella laughed freely. It did not escape my attention that several men loitering around also turned to stare. Abruptly, she stopped, a restraining hand on my arm.

I pulled Bella aside from the onslaught of people entering the opera house, watching her face warily. She was waxen with nerves and looked as if she might hyperventilate.

"It'll be fine, Bella. What are you so nervous about?"

She turned to me, her voice choked with fear. "What if they don't like me? What if I get there and I become some blubbering idiot?"

I sighed and began forcibly steering her towards the doors. "Ridiculous. And besides, going to see the opera isn't a very sociable way to meet someone. The only time you'll be forced to talk with them is intermission. Even then, it'll probably be too loud to carry on a decent conversation."

Bella shot me a sardonic glare. "Surprisingly, that almost makes me feel better."

Our hand slinked, I pulled her past the elderly usher. We slid into the box just as the lights began to dim. Carlisle nodded at Bella with obvious recognition and Esme, seated beside him, shot her a warm smile. Emmett grinned at our entwined hands, his eyebrows waggling. Rosalie, perched gracefully on his left, did not acknowledge us, but turned to the stage deliberately. Emmett grimaced in apology and loped his arm around the back of his chair—huh? When did _that _become serious?—to face the show. Bella stiffened beside me. I squeezed her hand in response.

Alice, beaming with her hands clasped in front of her, clapped enthusiastically as the orchestra's tune up session dwindled down. Jasper, rolling his eyes, joined her and soon the entire opera house was filled with the thunder of applause.

I watched Bella rather than the stage, memorizing every emotion that played across her face. Her lips pursed at the opening Tristan chord, a strange and unexpected dissonance, but pulled into smile as the orchestral interlude continued. No one clapped louder than she after the audience discovered the poison was in fact a love potion, and no one cried harder when Tristan, mortally wounded by Melot, was left on the stage as the lights went on for intermission.

"So soon?" she pouted, looking around her in disbelief.

I pulled her to her feet. She wobbled unsteadily in her heels, leaning on me for support. "It's only half done," I reminded her mildly. "Are you enjoying it so far?" It was an unnecessary question—I saw the light that danced in her eyes as delirious enjoyment.

"It's amazing," she breathed. "When Isolde and Tristan declared their love for each other—I mean, I can't understand German at all, but the emotion was so powerful, it moved me to tears." She clutched her hands in front of her, miming the actors.

I chuckled softly as I ushered her out of the box and into a flow of people. "Not an uncommon reaction."

Her smile faded as she bumped into Rosalie accidentally. Rose turned to give her a frosty glare, all the more a haughty princess. Bella's wavering confidence did not affect her impression on my friends. Carlisle spun her stories about Richard Wagner and his colourful life—revolutions, escape to Switzerland, the anti-Semitic views while Esme, always the mother, insisted on inviting Bella to dinner. Emmett amused her with his uncannily accurate portrayal of Tristan in a falsetto that could only be heard by dogs. Several people looked on, and for once, the attention didn't make Bella blush. Only Rosalie stewed in frosty silence, choosing to interact almost exclusively with Alice and Jasper. I had a feeling the two women bonded over their mutual obsession with fashion.

When the lights dimmed again, Bella was rigid with anticipation. Sometimes, she would catch my eye and smile, or her reaction would make me laugh out loud at the most inappropriate times. At the end when the actors took their bows again and again, not a single eye in the audience was dry. Emotionally stunted as I was, I couldn't help but be moved by the tears that flowed swiftly down Bella's face. Alice sniffled into Jasper's arm as Rosalie fanned her face as if it would dry the moisture threatening to drip down her face.

The drive home was quiet, but comfortable in its silence. Both of our thoughts were elsewhere; we were with Tristan and Isolde and their undying love, a love that possibly equalled the love that was blossoming between Bella and I.

--

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, and even those who haven't. I love the support. You may have noticed I haven't been replying, but I will someday. Things have been getting hectic. But as we get into the Christmas vacation, everything should slow down a bit and I'll be able to reply to your reviews a lot faster. Next update shouldn't be too far away (but really, what does that even mean?)


	20. Chapter 20

**As always, thanks go out to my beta, sispepperell. Don't worry; your father most likely won't kill you but I'm sure he'll fantasize about it...**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 20: Genius

It was easier now that I'd memorized every plane, every curve of Bella's face and body. My hand moved with practiced motions over the contours of her high cheekbones that always contained an undertone of pink. Her eyes were more realistic now, but no matter how much I exaggerated the tone in her bottomless eyes, my paintings never quite matched Bella in actuality. I'd learned the many expression of her mouth, the pursing that meant deliberation, the dimple that was a restrained smile. Even drawing Bella's body didn't send tremors down my arm as it used to. I would never be able to ignore her simple beauty, but in her presence I had grown oddly desensitized.

I peeked at Bella where she was posed in an exquisitely detailed white dress—designed by Alice under the condition I would give her a special mention at my exhibit and boost her sales—her long hair cascading in delicate ringlets down her bared back. The soft lighting from the hazy sun only served to make Bella more ethereal in her dramatic looks—the dark hair, red lips, alabaster skin.

The studio had become a clutter since Bella moved in. My completed canvasses of Bella, three more in two short weeks, were lined up against one wall. She would often remark as she crossed the floor that it was a room full of mirrors, her own face reflected too many times around her. On another wall hung Bella's pastels of people doing simple, pedestrian things, but somehow illuminated by a beauty only Bella could find in ordinariness.

After an hour, Bella took a short break to stretch. She drifted to where I sat, my brush still moving feverishly. As was our custom, she said nothing, only watching, storing everything away where her perceptive mind would later decipher.

"I think it'll do you some good to go outside tomorrow," she commented lightly after taking a sip of cool water.

I didn't take my eyes off my canvas. "There's no time."

I felt the warmth of her hand graze the side of my hair, thoroughly distracting me. My arm slowed against my own volition.

"You haven't slept in nearly three days, and you haven't left your studio since the opera," she pleaded. "I'm worried about you. I may not have a medical degree from Harvard, but I know that's not healthy."

"I'll go out when I'm done this." I slapped on more paint, blending it carefully into what existed, enraptured as always by oil paint's rich textures and colour.

Bella sighed heavily. "Edward. The bags under your eyes are so black, it seems as if they're permanently etched there. You look like a freaking vampire."

I rubbed my jaw in frustration, the rough stubble chaffing my hand. The coolness on my cheek suggested I might have smudged something on my face. I glanced at my hand. A burnt orange—perfect to bring out the bronze tones of my hair. Absently I wiped my hands on my pants. "Maybe I will."

--

Bella left early in the morning for a coffee meeting with Alice, Esme, and Rosalie. I was left with nothing to do and too much time to spare. I stared longingly at the still-incomplete painting tucked away in the corner that Bella made me promise not to touch.

I took the liberty of taking a shower, staying in there for a long time to make up for the past days when all I'd afforded myself was a scrub behind the ears and feet. My face turned upward, my eyes closed, I relished the relentless beating of the water down on me, cleansing me of several days' worth of dirt. I watched it swirl down the drain, water dripping from the end of my nose. The water, once hot, turned lukewarm and eventually into an icy spray. I shut it off quickly, tearing the shower curtain aside to welcome the moist humid air that pummelled me.

I spent a good half hour thoroughly blow-drying my hair, a comb and a vat of gel by my side. I loaded on the product, moulding my hair into different styles. It didn't take long until my hair was dried and crackly, stiff with the glue and suffering from product overload. I washed my hair again, this time in the sink. I ran my fingers several times through the tangled locks, seeing as my comb was caked with dried styling product. I threw it into the toilet and flushed.

As I waited for my hair to dry yet again, I lounged around. Even a book couldn't settle me down. A vampire love story—what sort of trite crap was this that Bella read? I snorted and discarded the book too.

And so I paced. Sometime after noon, my phone vibrated. I already indulged myself to a slice of bread with cheese and wine, and had resigned to waiting impatiently for Bella's return. Thinking it was her, I lunged for the phone. It was at my ear in a blur.

"Bella?"

"Eh, no," a distinctly masculine voice told me. "It's Emmett. Do you have any spare planks of wood lying around? I've run out and the budget isn't allowing for any more trips down to the hardwood shop. I promise to pay you back."

I glanced at the massive pile of wood stacked in my corner, working hard to not be disappointed that it was Emmett and not Bella. "And how are you going to do that?"

Emmett voice, frantic and loud, croaked, "This piece is going to be a big seller, I tell you. I just…I'll pay your car insurance for a month!"

I frowned. Despite my car insurance being quite low thanks to my spotless driving record, it was still a tad too desperate for Emmett. "I'll be there in five."

--

The door was nearly yanked off its hinge, and before I had time to make a witty comment, I was crushed into the oblivion known as Emmett's hugs.

"Thanks so much, man," Emmett blubbered, his eyes fixed on the planks of wood tied to the top of my car.

"There's more in the trunk." His only response was to begin unloading. Sighing, I headed out to help.

"What's this giant project you've got going?" I grunted as we heaved a slab of wood onto his studio floor.

"You'll see," Emmett said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Somehow, he was already beside my car, struggling to hoist another hunk of wood. "It's one of my more genius ideas, I tell you."

I rolled my eyes as I pushed my sleeves up. "That's not saying much, considering some of your more moronic ideas. Remember how you tried to create a palace made of chocolate like in the myth? In the summer?"

Emmett scowled at me, his eyebrows scrunching together. He dropped the piece of wood without warning, bringing me down with it. Heading out again, he called, "That was a freaking genius idea! The execution was just a little shady."

I contented myself with indecipherable muttering as I dusted myself off.

After we'd unloaded almost all the wood from my car, I collapsed to the ground. Needless to say, I hadn't exercised in a while. My muscles were cramping, my lungs were screaming, Emmett was laughing.

"I think I should let Bella know that your stamina's a little pathetic," Emmett smirked from his upright position.

In a flash, my hand whipped out to rip one of Emmett's legs from under him. He landed in an ungraceful heap at my side, most likely bruising his overdeveloped ego.

"I think you just broke my tailbone," he wheezed.

I studied my nails with apparent fascination. Boredom dripped from my words when I spoke. "I think you should refrain from speaking in Bella's presence." I paused. "Can I see what you're working on now?"

Emmett shot me a look of incredulous disbelief. "What do I owe you?"

I nodded pointedly at the large wood pile in the middle of the room.

"Fine," he grumbled, getting to his feet gingerly. He grimaced at me, hamming it up, but he walked with a bounce to his step. The guilt I felt subsided.

He returned carrying a large dresser in front of him. I couldn't see his face from where I sat. However, I stood up quickly when he stumbled towards me, knowing he probably couldn't see me either.

"What the…" I began. I shut up as soon as he laid it down for me to study.

It was a genius idea. It still had a quirky Emmett feel to it, but it wouldn't take a hardcore modern art lover to appreciate this piece of work.

"Amazing," I mused. "It's stunning, of course, but it has real commercial value." I studied it some more, rotating around the dresser as if it were my prey. It was cut elegantly, varnished in a rich smoky colour, but painted overtop with Emmett's trademark blondes. But unlike most dressers, this one was organically cut, the two sides waving down to the floor, giving it a playfully lopsided feel. "Seussical furniture. What are you calling it?"

Emmett shrugged his massive shoulders. "I'm not sure yet. But I've already got a commission to make more. When Carlisle took photos of it to show people, someone requested one for her daughter and she wants flowers on it, something girly. She offered to pay €715 for it. I talked to Carlisle already and he thinks I should make a few more, but have one with zebrawood and the other with varnish only."

I squinted at him. Why did I get the feeling he wasn't telling me something? "It sounds like you can make a lot of money off of these. Are you planning on buying a new LCD television or something?"

For the first time, Emmett looked sheepish. He pulled at the collar of his shirt uncomfortably, as if it was hot in the room. He shuffled his feet. "Actually," he mumbled, "I was thinking of something a little bigger than that…"

"A car?" I hedged in, knowing perfectly well that I was wrong.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. I was getting concerned; it was uncharacteristic of Emmett to keep things secret, especially those that made him blush. "I bought a ring. For Rose."

Suddenly disoriented, I folded myself onto the ground. Was my bachelor, playboy friend settling down? It was inconceivable. I choked out, "That a serious step you're taking there, Emmett. Are you sure you're ready?"

Clearly, Rose was a witch. She'd cast some spell on Emmett that made him behave like a bashful seven year old. He joined me on the floor, but didn't look at me. "As much as I hate to admit it, I'm getting old. It's not enough to be Uncle Em anymore; I want my own little McCartys running around. I can't imagine being with anyone else but Rose. I mean, I don't even_ see_ girls anymore. Not their faces. The commitment's not a problem. I know Rose wants to have children, and I'm afraid if I don't propose soon, she'll leave me." He turned to me then, his face stretched out in panic. "I'm terrified she'll say no. If that happens, what am I going to do?"

Staring at his lost puppy face, I came to an important conclusion. "Rose isn't an idiot. She'll say yes. I know she feels strongly about you." No one could resist Emmett's charms, and definitely not a woman that was a secret romantic as Rose was. "Have you picked out a ring yet?"

Apparently not, but he babbled on about white gold and diamonds. Try as I might, I couldn't concentrate. Only when I finally left, thoroughly stuck in Paris traffic, could I pinpoint my problem. Emmett and Rosalie had known each other for exactly as long as Bella and I knew each other, and yet our relationship hadn't progressed nearly as far as theirs had. It was true that she'd managed to capture and hold my heart the way no one before her ever managed, and I more than suspected she felt the same for me. But we didn't speak our feelings much, resorting instead to simple gestures to show we cared for each other. And this made me question, was I holding back, or did Bella and I lack the connection?

--

Ooh, depressing ending. On another note, thanks for all the reviews, and if you don't hear from me again before Christmas, Merry Christmas! (Happy Hanukkah, Happy Winter, whatever. It's difficult being politically correct.)


	21. Chapter 21

**When reading the last chapter, you may have come across $$$$. My apologies; it was supposed to say 715 euros, which is approximately $1000 US. Also, the furniture Emmett is seen making is inspired by real furniture. Links to pictures on my profile!**

**As always, thanks to sisipepperell for the thorough job. And Kenza, I used the Sorbonne!  
**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 21: Idol

"This is the first and last time I am ever attending a movie premiere," I grumbled as someone jostled me from behind. I whipped my head around to fix him with an icy glare. The youth, a good half foot shorter than I'd anticipated, took one look at my face and stepped back twice very deliberately. I stared him down a while longer.

"Why? It's so much fun!" Bella clutched a magazine to her chest, her neck craning to see above the bustle of the crowd.

I grunted. "I don't understand why everyone likes this James Dene guy. I mean, what kind of name is that anyway? Is he_ trying_ to be funny?"

She was now on the tips of her toes, trying futilely to see past the man that was now blocking her way. Ironically, nothing was happening on the red carpet. "It's his real name."

"Then his parents had a lousy sense of humour. Why would anyone want to see some gay cowboy movie anyways?"

I heard the bigotry in my voice, hating myself for its whiny tone. It was irrational of me to be jealous of some movie star, but there it was, brewing inside and turning my insides hot and ugly.

Luckily for me, Bella did not hear my last comment. A sudden hush had spread through the crowd, all heads turned in one direction.

"Oh my," Bella said faintly, her dark eyes impossibly wide. "He's here."

A sleek black limo had pulled up to the sidewalk. There was a flurry of excited glances and meaningful nudges, but I could only feel the anxiety, on the brink of pain, exuding from Bella. One shiny shoe emerged, then another. As soon as the light caught his blond hair, everyone went wild as a tsunami of people rushed to attack the poor guy. Several burly security guards, some even bigger than Emmett, worked hard to calm the rabid fans but to no avail. Bella, I was proud to note, did not rush ahead as the crowd did. Instead, she was swept up with them, clearly unwilling and bewildered at the chaos.

I fought my way over to her, earning several nasty jabs in the ribs and even more nasty glares. I fished her out from where she was squashed amongst teenage girls, holding her close to me to protect her from the overexcitement.

James Dene made his way slowly down the red carpet, pausing to pose for the cameras that blinded with their flash. A pretty redhead dangled off his arm, clearly smitten with him.

Knowing Bella would want nothing more than to be closer to her idol, I shoved people aside until we were at the front. I sighed, knowing I was subjecting myself to my own torture, allowing myself to be ripped up by envy. I truly was a masochist.

The light bulbs were unbearably bright up close. I half-raised my arm to squint at James Dene who in an estimated five seconds would be mere inches away. Unlike some of the crazier fangirls, Bella's arms were not stretched out in hopes of grazing his expensive suit; her idolatry of him was purely professional, she claimed. She admired his great body of work, and acknowledged his superior skills as a screenwriter, producer and actor. That she didn't have any fantasies involving his hair fisted in her hand was the only reason I'd agreed to accompany her.

Another step placed him directly in front of Bella. I didn't know exactly what caught his attention first—if it was the way the wind blew at that moment, sweeping her hair and its luscious scent to him, or the beguiling smile she had fixed on her face, or that Bella looked more stunning than usual that day, with her lips the colour of apple blossoms and her cheeks flushed with the heat of too many bodies. But at Bella, he smirked, pushing his oversized sunglasses to the top of his head. His eyes, a cold and detached blue, skimmed down her body before meeting her eyes again. He dipped his chin once in offhand acknowledgement. Bella nodded in response.

My arm tightened around her, bringing her closer to me. I watched as his eyes traced the contour of my arm to my face, where I'm sure my face did not disguise the glowing hatred I had for him at that moment. James Dene's head bobbed again, his sunglasses sliding back down again. He kept on walking with his redhead friend, not sparing us one more glimpse. I did not relax until he was swallowed by the darkness of the movie theatre.

--

She didn't look at me once throughout the movie, so intense was her concentration. I found it difficult to focus on the darkened theatre, my eyes always sliding over to the immobile Bella. The appreciative sighs and murmurs of the female audience during James Dene's many love scenes, with his female and male co-stars, soon got on my nerves. I rolled my eyes when the two men went skinny-dipping, one woman actually squealing in her perverted excitement.

I watched the movie in Bella's eyes as the colours flickered in her brown depths. She blinked infrequently and not one expression ever contorted her face. Occasionally, her fingers would twitch around mine, leaving me to wonder exactly what was passing through her mind. Bella's silence and inattentiveness, devoid of the warmth I was used to emanating from her, made me restless. After the hour mark, I constantly shifted in my seat, my legs crossing and uncrossing themselves. Once, I accidentally kicked the seat of the person in front of me, earning myself a hot glare. I mouthed an apology to him, but he turned around before waiting for it. I busied myself with checking my watch constantly.

My brain faintly registered James Dene's heartbroken sobbing before the screen blackened. The credits began rolling, the house lights emitting their dim glow. At once, the buzzing began, of voices praising James Dene's sensitivity as an actor, but more importantly, his good looks. I heard several crude comments that made me wish for brain shampoo. Clearly, their minds spent more time in the gutter than Emmett's did.

I got to my feet, anxiously stretching my arms and legs to let out the cramps. Bella's hand tugged me back down. I feel clumsily into my seat.

"Stay," she said, still not tearing her eyes from the screen. I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I want to see if he'll come out afterwards." I noticed the magazine, clutched to her chest with her free hand.

I sighed deeply. On the one hand, she finally talked to me. It was to tell me she wanted to meet her idol, but it was something. I was hopeless when it came to Bella, and I was determined to do anything she wanted. And so I stayed.

I stood up to let the occasional person out, shrugging my shoulders in apology when Bella did not stand to let them by. Mostly, I stared at the white words scrolling up the black screen, unable to discover what held Bella fixated to her seat.

When finally the screen spewed no more names, the last remaining people let out a whoop and applauded heartily. Bella, I'd noticed regretfully, had dropped my hand in order to clap for the movie.

As one by one the people filed out, I saw Bella's face contract in worry and frustration. An usher came in shortly after to sweep up the popcorn scattered on the sticky floor. We were the last ones.

"Bella," I nudged her, "I don't think he's coming back."

Silently but smoothly, she rose to her feet, brushing by the usher. She shot Bella an exasperated look for tripping over the popcorn pile. I flipped her a few coins for her troubles, jogging to catch up to Bella.

Despite the empty theatre, the streets were swarming. I caught up to Bella easily, lacing my fingers through hers. We walked quietly to my car. I stopped to open the door for her, noticing the stars reflected in her eyes as she glanced up into the night sky, flush with a tint of royal blue. Gently, I helped her in.

"It's a beautiful night," I commented lightly as I slid into the driver's seat. I throttled the ignition, accelerating smoothing to meet the traffic flowing away from the theatre.

"Yes," she replied vaguely. "You can see the stars. A rarity."

"Which one's your favourite?"

"Star?" Bella asked. I nodded. She stared out the window. "Deneb. One of the most luminous stars to ever exist and around 1500 light years away." From what I could see of her half-illuminated face, she was smiling bitterly. "Unfortunately, being a white supergiant, it will have a short but brilliant life." A pause followed her ominous statement.

"What did you think of the movie?" I asked, fishing desperately for the connection we seemed to have lost for the past few hours.

She turned her obsidian eyes to me. They were solemn, powerful in their heavy knowledge. "Hypnotic. James has stage presence."

There was something too offhand, too casual about the way she referred to him. I dug deeper. "Do you know him?" I gripped the steering wheel tighter.

Bella tilted her face to the window, out to the sky. "Not anymore. Maybe I did once, or maybe I never knew."

And I thought _I_ was cryptic.

"He went to Sorbonne," Bella continued, her voice wistful. "We were in a lot of classes together. He was always a very talented guy. Still is. One day, sometime in second year, he just disappeared from the campus, never to be heard of again. Two months later he was on every movie poster in town." She smiled, but there was nothing genuine about it. "I remember all the plays he used to star in at school. I went to every one."

I was so deeply engrossed in Bella's tale, I almost forgot to turn. My tires squealed as I cut across several lanes. Even the angry honking could not deter Bella from her rant.

"We had an understanding, James and I. He used to write me little poems, very witty." She laughed to herself. An unsettled feeling crept into my stomach as I realized she wasn't talking to me. She was lost in her own thoughts, far away from here. "We had a lot in common. He was well versed in Shakespeare and Austen; all the classics. He could recite every single one of Robert Frost's poems. And he had a flair for the dramatic." A sigh escaped her lips, low and contemplative. "When he left, I was devastated. I couldn't imagine him going without saying goodbye. And now it seems, though a few years have passed, he's forgotten me." I sensed that this was the part that depressed her the most.

Briefly, I took my eyes off the road to seek out her hand. When I touched her open palm with my fingers, she flinched slightly. I startled her back into the present. Sadly, she smiled, enclosing her hand in mine.

"It sucks to be forgotten. I've given up on dreams of being a famous actress or painter; all I want is to be is remembered, even if it's only by a few select people."

I caught her eye. Maintaining the connection between us, I brought her hand to my lips, brushing her knuckles tenderly. She gave me a watery smile of thanks, wiping off the tears that had brimmed over with the back of her free hand.

"You're not forgettable. Think of all the people who will always remember you: Alice, Jasper, Emmett, even Rosalie. And I will never forget you," I vowed to her.

A light drizzle settled over Paris like a fine dust. The windshield wipers beat to the rhythm of my heart, the sounds of our tires soothing in its familiarity. The slickness forced my attention away from her and onto the increasingly slippery roads. But the weight of her hand in mine comforted me, and I let myself hope that it was of some solace to Bella as well.

--

I know some of you won't be too happy about what happens this chapter, but just to let you know, things will get sweeter before souring. Thoughts? Questions? Just...review!


	22. Chapter 22

**The usual thanks to my beta, sisipepperell, and my Paris consultant, Kenza.**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 22: Roses

I deftly looped the tie around my neck, pulling it tight against my Adam's apple. I squinted at the mirror as I fixed my collar, the starchy fabric unwilling to cooperate with me. Bella hobbled in holding one shoe in her hand.

"Your tie is crooked," she said automatically and she tripped her way back out of the room.

I sighed in the empty room, ripping my tie off to start again. "Alice is rubbing off on you," I muttered darkly.

Once again I tightened my tie. I stepped back for a better look. Even Alice wouldn't have been disappointed with my appearance—I'd stuffed myself into a very expensive but ill-fitting three piece suit, a gift from my father for my eighteenth birthday. My hair was slicked down, darkened with grease to a nondescript brown. The shadows beneath my eyes were not as apparent as usual, and I'd taken extra time that morning to shave carefully.

"Should we go now?" Bella asked as she appeared in the doorway, still fixing on a pair of pearl earrings.

I checked my watch, a family heirloom. "Sure. We're already late."

Bella grimaced. She grabbed a necklace from the table beside her. I let her struggle for a few minutes with it, her arms poking out in awkward angles. I tried in vain to keep the smirk off my face as I strode over.

"Do you need some help?"

She met my eyes bashfully, her cheeks glowing brighter in her embarrassment. "Yes, please," she murmured.

I touched her fingers and she surrendered the delicate silver chain to me. Her hands wound themselves in her hair, pulling up her thick waving tresses to allow me better access to her neck. I was hit by the tantalizing scent of strawberry shampoo, a scent I was quickly associating as being Bella's.

The suit seemed to creak as I bent my elbows. I sucked in, trying not to simultaneous explode the seams and buttons all at once.

"You really need a new suit," Bella teased, her face turning towards me. She was most likely referring to the two inches of bare wrist blinding her in their whiteness.

I didn't answer. I was transfixed by the smooth movement of her throat as she talked, as she swallowed, as she twisted her neck exposing to me all the delicate sinews working together. As she bent her neck, all I could see were her vertebrae protruding, every single one connected to another to create a beautiful creation such as her neck. The shadows threw them into sharp relief, making her appear more skeletal than she actually was. I couldn't resist; I reached out a finger to gently stroke the bones. Bella started, but relaxed almost immediately.

"Your hands are cold," she said by way of explanation.

Were they? They felt warm to me. My breath whooshed across the ivory smoothness of her neck, raising little goosebumps. With trembling fingers, I clasped the necklace on, letting it go to watch the play of light and reflected shine on Bella skin. I touched my lips just off to the side of her right shoulder blade. She shivered slightly. Smiling, she faced me, lacing her fingers in mine. Her eyes were warmer than usual and made me ache with hunger.

She leaned in, face upturned. I met her halfway.

--

I was able to find a decent parking space less than a block from the Pompidou. I opened Bella's door for her, offering my arm. She gladly latched on, picking her dress's hem up delicately between two fingers. I hated Alice for forcing her into ridiculously high strappy heels, but I could not deny that it made her slender legs appear even longer and leaner.

Bella, as usual, eagerly watched the chaos around her, leaving me to manoeuvre us safely to the front doors. Ten metres away and we could already hear Emmett's booming laugh. I groaned aloud.

Noticing my reaction, Bella smirked at me. "Is that Emmett I can hear?"

"Unfortunately," I sighed. "Do you want to sneak in the side? I can call Rosalie and have her let us in."

Bella shook her head emphatically. "It's his exhibit. You're going to run into him eventually. And besides, I _like_ Emmett."

And so we joined the line. Several minutes and a few squished toes later, Emmett was beaming at us. Just beyond his elbow, I noticed a line of crystal glasses surrounded by many bottles of some nearly transparent liquor, most of which were already empty.

"Bella and Edward. Nice of you to come," he roared obnoxiously. "Champagne?"

Without waiting to hear a reply, he popped the cork into the incoming crowd, narrowly missing my left ear.

"Watch it," I hissed. Emmett ignored me, but waved his apologies to the crowd. "Since when can you serve alcohol in an art centre?"

"Connections, my brother, connections. I had to get a special permit." The champagne bubbled over the rim of the glass, dripping onto Emmett's hand. As if reluctant to let it go to waste, he licked a clean line up his hand to the mouth of the glass. He didn't notice my disgusted glare. "Still, no alcohol beyond the lobby."

He handed Bella the champagne flute, slopping some out in his haste. Bella grinned at him as he whipped out a handkerchief to wrap around the stem. "Thanks, Emmett, but I don't really drink alcohol."

"Eh?" he replied, squinting at her. "Don't trust yourself around Eddie, hmm?" He elbowed in the side a little too roughly to be teasing.

"Hey," I muttered, rubbing my side.

Bella surprised me. Instead of blushing darkly, she smiled. "I'm more concerned about what I might say than do. I tend to get very unicorn-centric when I'm drunk. And you cannot shut me up."

Emmett's eyes twinkled, his dimples deepening as he gazed at her admiringly. "Am I going to get to see this someday?" He passed me the champagne glass meant for Bella, making sure to pocket his handkerchief. It was only meant for the ladies, apparently. I rubbed the mouth clean on my sleeve.

"Maybe at the wedding," Bella responded.

I choked on the sip of champagne I'd just taken. It then hit me that she was most likely talking about Emmett and Rose's wedding rather than one she was hoping for us. Emmett, looking falsely concerned, thumped me on the back. Unable to express myself in words, I sought to convey my ire through an icy glare.

"Maybe we should go in, Emmett," Bella said, her voice funny-sounding. I glanced at her, but she turned away from me, examining the ever-growing huddle of people waiting outside. I searched for familiar faces but found none.

"Okay," Emmett shrugged. Taking my leave, I encircled Bella's waist with my arm and began towing her away. "Will I see you kids at the auction?"

"Yes!" Bella shouted before we were swallowed by the crowd.

In the lobby, many people loitered, clearly there for the social aspect of it rather than the actual art. I spotted a few other artists among them, chatting up pretty young women while slurping a luminescent green liquid.

I pulled Bella down a deserted hallway, dumping the now-empty champagne flute on a cart nearby. In the ambient gallery lighting, sculpture after sculpture was lined up. A plaque was placed in front of each one, presumably for the title of the piece. Bella broke from my side to approach the nearest one.

The sculpture was traditionally rendered, a rare feat for Emmett, with accurate proportions. It was made of warm red clay, depicting a boy dressed in rags. He was life-size and unbelievably realistic; Bella raised a careful hand to touch his arm before withdrawing quickly. The boy's face was lost, almost desperate in its panic. His bare feet pointed one way, his bare chest in another, his head craned around. The ribs protruding painfully above his bloated stomach more than hinted at malnourishment. I glanced down at the plaque. The piece was appropriately titled _Mama…?_

A stifled giggle drew my attention to Bella. Her hand was clasped to her mouth in an attempt to quell her laughter. In that moment, something about Bella's awkward grace that stuck with me and pulled at strings in my heart. I smiled because it was natural and pried her fingers off her face.

"There's no need to restrain yourself," I told her quietly.

"I know," she whispered, "but this is a holy place for me and I'd rather not disrupt it with loud sounds or sudden movements." But she grabbed my hand and dragged me to the next display, the hollowness of her heels echoing around us.

The next few were several assemblage sculptures representing Emmett colourful imagination such as _Irritable Grizzly_, the skeleton of a grizzly recreated through the use of several hundred chicken bones, and _God_, a sculpture that I was almost certain paid homage to Carlisle rescuing him from the artist's doom known as poverty. Another one was entitled _Every Thorn Is a Rose_, most likely a play on the adage "every rose has its thorns". At first glance, it appeared to be a giant rose in the _Beauty and the Beast_ vein, with one rose petal touching the ground. The sculpture was constructed of a transparent medium, most likely Plexiglas. However, as I glanced closer at it, I noticed that each thorn was in fact a woman, each resuming a different pose. With a jolt, I realized that this was no doubt a tribute to Rosalie, a memento of his love for her.

After half an hour, Bella and I stood in front of another sculpture. I scrutinized the strips of bark hanging from the ceiling, knowing that it was representative of something, but I wasn't quite sure what. Emmett's art usually was pure fun and entertainment, or deeply thoughtful in concept. It was always difficult differentiating.

"I don't get it," she finally said.

Normally I reserved checking the title as a last resort, when I couldn't understand what the artist was trying to achieve. But now I did peek. _Mother Nature_.

I shifted my weight onto my other foot. My perception of the image changed a little, shaping itself into something…And then it dawned on me. "It's a study of the human figure," I explained, excited. I moved behind Bella, my arm reaching in front of her to trace out the images as I spoke. "It seems as if Emmett is applying some physics concepts here. Parallax refers to the apparent movement of the object due to a shift in the viewer's position. With this piece, if you move here"—I took a step back, pulling Bella with me—"then the lines on the mark make a shape of a neck and shoulder, the reclining back, the leg propped up. But if you turn like so—"

Bella gasped in sudden appreciation and understanding. There was awe in her eyes as she witnessed the abrupt change in mood. She wrapped her hand around mine and outlined the basic form. "Her head is tipped forward, her back arched, her leg pounding the floor."

I nodded. "It's a pose of anguish. I'm guessing Emmett is trying to convey Mother Nature's many tempers. And the wood no doubt relates to her being of the earth. I bet if we tried, we could probably see a few more poses in this."

Her eyes glinted in recognition of my challenge. "Whoever finds the most deserves something special, I think."

I narrowed my eyes. "To be fair, I don't think we should count these first two. Are you ready?" I didn't wait for her to answer; I began circling _Mother Nature_ immediately, determined to rise victorious.

Twenty minutes later I was thoroughly defeated. Somehow Bella had managed to find a total of six different poses compared to my measly two. She'd found a yawning Mother Nature, a docile one, and an angry one in the vein of lightning-bolt-throwing Zeus. I could not bear the smugness that radiated from every pore of her body.

I bowed my head down in consent to my loss. Bella, her nose stuck teasingly into the air, glanced down at me in a haughty air that was spoiled by her slight smile.

"And now, peasant, for punishment, what shall I have you do?" she asked in a crisp British accent, her heels tapping the ground. She arched an eyebrow at me playfully. I dropped to one knee, getting my hair tousled in response. "I have just the idea. I know you absolutely despise _Romeo + Juliet_ the Baz Luhrman way—"

"I do not despise it," I objected. "It's just not classic, that's all."

"So I think you should do your best Leo-as-Romeo imitation, starting from 'If I profane with my unworthiest hand…'" she continued as if I hadn't spoken.

"'If I profane with my unworthiest hand/This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this—" I recited as I covertly entwined Bella's hand in mine.

"No, you're doing it all wrong," she teased. "You have to say it in that sexy American way Leo does it."

I wrinkled my nose in distaste. "You think Leonardo DiCaprio is sexy?" Maybe it was time to rethink this relationship.

Bella shrugged in reply, noting and smiling at my obvious disgust. "I can't resist his boyish charm. Now, 'If I profane'."

"'If I profane with my unworthiest hand,'" I repeated again, actually attempting to sound American. I reminded myself that I was not indulging Bella's fantasy, but feeding my own nightmare.

She verbally sparred with me, her portrayal of Juliet more mischievous than the one Claire Danes created. She successfully evaded me several times as I tried to kiss her on the lips, her dark eyes always flirting, always teasing. It distracted me endlessly and I found myself stumbling over the lines I had memorized for over a decade. When Bella as Juliet asked me, "'What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?'", her eyes raked up and down my body, clearly telling me to keep it in my pants. From the smile threatening to explode over her face, I could tell it was her favourite line.

I leaned in, scrapping the movie's script entirely to kiss her deeply and fully. As our lips touched, any doubt about our relationship, joke or otherwise, vanished. I was consumed by the need that was Bella, and I felt her own urgency conveyed through her arms locking our heads together.

Panting, she touched her forehead to mine. Her eyes shone with a vivacity that was captured beautifully by the dim gallery lights. "This scene is so much more fun with Paris."

What? "You want a Paris?"

Bella rolled her eyes. She stretched on her toes to touch her lips to mine tenderly. "Not in my life. Why would I if I've found Romeo?"

A discreet cough jolted us both. Rosalie stood a few feet away from us clad in an ostentatious red dress, her golden hair piled extravagantly on her head. Strangely though, she almost appeared nervous; uncomfortable at the very least.

"Hello, Rosalie," I said uncertainly, not sure what to make of her presence.

She smiled weakly in return. Her arm moved suddenly, spasm-like, to gesture vaguely in one direction. "The auction's starting soon and I'm just rounding people up."

I nodded slowly. Bella remained silent at my side. Only the warmth emanating from her hand was a sign of her existence. I turned to her now. Her face was tipped up at me expectantly, her eyes reflecting the lights. "Should we…?"

She squeezed my hand, letting me know her answer. When I'd taken a few steps, I finally realized what was different about Rose. When Bella felt me stop, she halted as well.

"That's a nice ring, Rosalie. It must have set Emmett back quite a bit."

"Yes, probably." I didn't spare her a glance even though her voice was slightly off. I could imagine her well enough on my own, twisting the ring on her slender finger as the facets threw light around the room. Her face would be closed, emotionless. We were alike in the stoic way we expressed our feelings.

I'd taken a few more steps when Rosalie's voice stopped me. "Bella—"

She stiffened beside me. I released her hand in favour of her waist, hoping to soothe her with my touch. Bella relaxed minutely and inclined her head in Rosalie's direction.

"Thank you for going ring shopping with Emmett." There was a sincerity in her voice I hadn't been expecting to hear; my head twisted to observe the impossibility. Rosalie, the strongest and cruellest woman I knew, was smiling timidly, her arms folded in a protective gesture around her. I had never seen her so vulnerable, even when stripped of all her clothing. "It means a lot to me; more than you'll ever know. I haven't been the greatest to you, and so for you to help—"

"I did it for Emmett," Bella told her. The words sounded harsh, but I could see the sympathy etched on Bella's face. Her voice was soft, gentle. "The best way you can thank me is to love him as much as he deserves. He's a great guy, Rose. You're lucky to have snagged him."

Rose's head bowed. "I know."

We were interrupted then by a smartly dressed couple glancing curiously our way. Rosalie hid behind her imperious façade and drifted away to greet them. I tugged Bella away, down the hallway to where the auction was to take place.

"When did you go ring shopping with Emmett?" The interest in my voice was not disguised.

Bella shrugged her shoulders. "I might not actually have gone for coffee with Alice like I said I did," she hedged in.

I cast a sideways glance at her. She smiled at me innocently, widening her eyes to double the effect. "Are you keeping anything else from me?"

"No," she laughed, burrowing herself closer to my chest.

Satisfied, I supported her as we joined the throngs of people heading into the lobby. I could not stop my mind from wandering to the silver ring gleaming on Rose's finger. One day, I promised myself, Bella would wear my ring.

--

Longest chapter yet! It's been hectic as of late, so I haven't replied to everyone's review yet. I hope everyone's had a great New Year! Any resolutions?

Leave me a thought, as usual!


	23. Chapter 23

**First off, I'd like to apologize for the week+ hiatus. I had a string of five-hour nights and then took it upon myself to catch up over the weekend. That being said, this is far too short for such a long delay, but the next chapter shouldn't be far off. As always, thanks to my beta, sisipepperell, who is much more coherent than I...**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 23: Scrutiny

I was cold. Unconsciously, my eyes still closed, I reached out to my left, seeking out the warmth that should've been there.

My eyes snapped open. It was bright—too bright. I had to blink several times, fighting the natural urge to squint. As the images I was seeing stopped burning themselves harshly onto my retinas, I realized it was already late in the morning, most likely near noon. The sun's trek to the top of the sky was at an end.

But the happy sunlight streaming in could not distract my panic. I'd never been one for sunny days anyways. The other half of the bed was empty, sheets still crumpled. My throat constricted and my brain stopped functioning. Never before had I feared being alone as I did in that moment.

"Hey, there," someone said softly, almost amused.

I knew that voice. I turned, desperately drawn into the source. Bella's eyes, flecked with gold in the bright light, greeted me. A soft smile curved those pouty lips upwards. My own lips lifted, my smile warm with relief. I sat up, eager to be with her again, but Bella held up one hand to stop me.

Confused, my brows furrowed. She met my gaze evenly, complacent and calm. I took a minute to glance her over, seeking the answer to her refusal. She was still comfortably dressed in her sleepwear, a thin cotton tank top and a pair of my old shorts, her legs bent and propped up with her on the chair in a fetal position. It was an odd pose, terribly uncomfortable looking. It was then that I noticed the board leaning against her legs.

When she read the recognition in my eyes, Bella gestured with her finger, inviting me to lie back down. Belatedly I realized she was holding a reddish orange pastel between two fingers, her one hand already covered in a myriad of fine dust.

She was drawing me.

Slowly, I leaned back until I was lying down. I tried to remember my sleeping position, to duplicate it exactly.

"Like this?" I asked. I watched her carefully.

"No," Bella teased, reaching out with one hand to touch her pinky, the only clear finger on that hand, to each eyelid. Soothed by her touch, they relaxed into a closed position.

Somewhere, not quite muffled by glass I could hear the ever present background of Paris traffic. But more importantly, I heard the soft nudge of pastel ghosting on paper, the sound itself peaceful in its familiarity. I heard the occasional sigh as paper shuffled and a chair creaked. Bella was presumably shifting her position.

It went against my nature to not watch Bella. So I peeked. She was staring at me intensely, her mouth slightly ajar. For the first time, I could sense something brewing beneath her calm exterior, something slightly maniacal that was present in almost all artists.

With a jolt she seemed to notice me peering at her. She smiled, saying, "I know your eyes are open." I had never felt more loved than I did in that moment, her sweet laughter echoing in my ears, the scent of her hair faintly detectable in the pillow I lay on, as her eyes burned their intense way down my body. She was looking at me as no one had before. The feeling of being exposed had nothing to do with my current state of undress in only a pair of flimsy boxer briefs, but everything to do with the scrutiny Bella regarded me with. I found that the vulnerability was gratifying in a bizarre way, knowing that I was showing myself to her the way she allowed herself to be seen by me.

I let myself be comforted by the slowing sounds of her pastel on paper and let the buttery sun warm me. I was smiling at the sheer impossibility of the moment; I had never felt as thoroughly happy as I did now. My pessimistic nature never allowed it before.

Just as my high was wearing off and I was beginning to feel frustrated, I heard a long drawn out sigh and the finality of her pastel being put down. I opened my eyes, blinking frequently as my eyes once again made the adjustment to bright light.

"Can I see it?" I already sat up, the sheets pushed into my lap, but I waited for her to answer.

Bella's brows smoothed out. She shrugged lightly. "If you wish. But I'm watning you when I say there's not much to see." She grimaced, her face contorting in a way that only made her more beautiful.

I brushed off her self-deprecating words as I did the sheet half-covering me. Standing up, an overwhelming head-rush consumed me and I staggered to her unevenly. I knelt beside her, trying to gain my composure, unreasonably eager to view the masterpiece Bella had no doubt created. She tipped her page toward me, casting it in shadow so the extreme white of the paper would not blind me. And then I gasped.

I had always admired Bella's sensitivity to lines, but her specialty was thrown into sharp relief in this particular piece. The wrinkles of the sheets were handled lovingly, every shadow rendered perfectly. Clearly she could appreciate the setting as being as important, if not more important, than the central figure. The bed seemed to take on a personality of its own; the sheets were crisp, fresh from the laundry, and yet disheveled from a night's abuse.

And I was nestled in them, my head tilted upwards to the ceiling. There was such care and precision in the way Bella had drawn me. The proportions were even; there were no amateur mistakes of making my limbs appear thin and noodley. In the light, my skin seemed to glow, my face sculpted beautifully with a slight shadow that defined by cheekbones. Under my eyes, there was a hint of darkness. My hair was a mane. Wild, untameable, gleaming with its unusual tint; I had to laugh at the uncanny resemblance to the real thing. The subtle shadows of my muscles in my neck to my shoulders and arms helped me look a little more filled out. I was almost certain that they were a figment of her imagination.

I reached out a finger to touch it, but resisted knowing I would most likely smudge the perfection. "It's beautiful," I whispered, my eyes still greedily raking over my own body. "You exaggerated the muscles, didn't you?"

"Of course not." Her tone of voice made me look up. Her chin was thrust out in defiance, her eyes belligerent. "I drew it as realistic as I could. I didn't exaggerate anything." She gave my nearest bicep a squeeze as if that would somehow emphasize her point.

I could only respond by grinning stupidly at her. A corner of her mouth quirked up in response. For several moments, we just smiled softly at each other. Finally, I cleared my throat, hating to break this comfort we'd achieved, but knowing it was necessary.

"This is going on the wall." Before she could protest, I leaped up with her board clutched in my hands. Carefully but swiftly, I peeled the tape adhering them to each other off, and stuck the drawing on the wall. A pride swelled in me, seeing myself pinned on Bella's wall.

A low sigh from beside me forced my attention elsewhere. Bella's mouth was twisted in distaste. I chuckled quietly at her expression. "I think it belongs."

"Not when compared to your oils paintings." Her eyes reflexively flickered to the wall opposite to her, my art hanging in their thick frames.

It was impossible not to notice the differences between our work. Where mine was always trying to be something supernatural, Bella's art exuded a natural feel as if it was effortless for her to produce such high calibre works.

She continued, "Pastel isn't as powerful as oil paint. It will disappear over time, but your art is forever."

I hated the bleak hopelessness in her voice. Cradling her to me, I was determined to prove how wrong she was.

That afternoon as she went shopping for hygienic products, I built, painted and framed her art work. Unlike mine, I matted them and protected them behind Plexiglas.

_There_, I thought. _Now your work will last as long as mine._

--

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	24. Chapter 24

**This chapter was done Friday, but had to go out to my beta, sisipepperell. Hope you enjoy...!**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 24: Inspiration

"No," she said flatly.

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. Bella had never downright refused me before. It was time to try a different tactic. I gazed evenly into her defiant eyes, lowering my voice to a gentle lull. "Please, Bella. I promise I will respect your—"

"Don't dazzle me, Edward," she snapped. Her cheeks were darkening in her anger, distracting me.

"So lovely," I murmured, reaching out a finger to stroke her heated cheek. I didn't even make it halfway to her face when my hand was slapped to the side.

She told me impatiently, "Don't change the topic."

I ducked my head. "I didn't mean to, this time."

"I told you I was uncomfortable with nudity at the very beginning and you promised me that you would never force me into anything against my ethics." Bella's eyes glowed like embers with the gravitational pull of a black hole. They were accusing me, but had not yet crossed the line to hostility.

I held up my hands in defeat, recognizing the truth of her words. "You're right. Forget about it. Alice dropped off a new dress the other day. Are you against wearing that?"

Bella pursed her plump lips. "Can I see it first?"

I shrugged, disappearing to retrieve it. I carried the garment bag back to Bella, mildly curious about its contents. Alice had warned me not to open it, departing with an omniscient, "You will need it in time." Alice was often dropping prophetic hints, her dark eyes solemn.

With a swift tug, the garment bag fell to the floor. Despite her hate for presents, I could see Bella's admiration. And I could see she was struggling to hide it.

The dress was short and modern in its cut, but old-fashioned in its exquisite detail. The greater portion of the body appeared to be made out of a pearly, shimmery silk, accented with the occasional trim of lace that looked vintage. The bodice was embroidered and emblazoned with the occasional pearl, giving it a lavish flourish. However, the detailing was done in a subtle, underwhelming way; there was nothing tacky or ostentatious about these dripping pearls.

Abruptly, Bella cleared her throat, zipping up the bag. The zipper snagged on a scrap of lace, but she violently pulled it upward, ignoring the tearing sound if she heard it at all. I winced, knowing that Alice was going to have my head the next time she visited. Bella thrust it into my hand, giving it back, but I noticed the way her eyes lingered on it.

"So," I began casually, eager to gain more knowledge of her unique mind, "did it pass inspection?" A wry grin twisted my face.

Bella shrugged, almost managing to appear nonchalant. Her acting skills were improving, I could see. "I've decided I'll pose for your shower painting." An eyebrow cocked as if challenging me to oppose her.

I was confused. Bella clearly loved the dress. Why was she against posing in it? "Why the change of mind?" I wondered aloud.

She smiled impishly at me. "I feel like doing something reckless."

It wasn't the whole truth. But I didn't expect a straight answer from her. Sighing, I gathered my brushes and paints, and began setting up my easel in the bathroom. As Bella bustled around in her terrycloth robe, I mixed colours. Bella's skin, Bella's hair, Bella's eyes—not that I'd be seeing them. I glanced up to analyze the white ceramic and blue floor tiles and began mixing them as well.

"Are you ready?" I asked Bella as she drifted by the bathroom again.

"Hmm?" She glanced at my canvas and my palette, both prepared and waiting for her. "Yes, of course."

She squeezed through the door, it being nearly halved by the strange arrangement of the easel and my chair. I tucked the chair in as she shimmied by, my nose mere millimetres from the canvas.

The shower door protested as Bella slid it to the side, stepping in carefully. It was still a little wet from my morning shower, and probably cold to the touch if her wince meant anything. Still, the water droplets on the frosted pane made a nice effect.

"Edward, could you give me a moment?" Her face was reddened in her chagrin.

I hadn't realized I was staring. Quickly, I averted my eyes, belatedly realizing Bella had to take off her robe and drop it outside of the area I was about to paint. I studied a nail poking out from my easel; I would have to hammer that in later.

Another high-pitched squeal reached my ears. "Okay," Bella called out, her voice echoing in the small shower stall. "What did you want me to do again?"

The frosted glass did not conceal as well as I hoped it would. I could too clearly make out every line and contour of Bella's delectable silhouette, albeit not being able to see much colour variation. I cleared my throat quietly, trying to focus on the task at hand. To spare Bella from the embarrassment, I would paint the frosted glass on thickly, obscuring her body.

"Can you bend down a little…Yes, just like that. Now, slide open the door just enough to stick your arm through." I grimaced as the door whined again. The gap was too wide. I caught a glimpse of something that wasn't arm. I gulped and croaked, "Bella, I can see you."

"Oops," she muttered, sliding the door a few inches back to the door jamb. I mourned the loss of seeing Bella's cheeks colour.

"Can you bend your arm some more? No, relax a little. This should look natural in an awkward way. It should be easy for you," I teased her.

I heard her grumble something that sounded remarkably like, "Bite me."

Unable to keep the grin off my face, I continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Slide your arm to the left more—no, your _other_ left, Bella." This was too much fun. "Can you feel the shampoo bottle? Good. Now just creep back a few more inches…Stretch your arm. Perfect."

And I began to paint. Knowing that Bella would not be able to hold the uncomfortable pose for long, I slapped on layers of paint quickly. Thankfully, there wasn't much background for me to pain except a variation of white that served as the colour of the bathroom walls. I outlined Bella's silhouette, filling it in with blocks of solid colour, darker where there were shadows. Her arm took more time and effort; the rest of her body would be muffled, covered by a technique that represented the translucent fuzziness of frosted glass. I built in the general structure of the shower frame, making note of the position of the shampoo bottle I had placed on the floor.

I rubbed my jaw vigorously, my muscles cramped from the intense painting I was doing. My brush dropped with a clatter and Bella, recognizing the sound, drew herself back to full height. She seemed shaky, probably tense and cramped from being in the position for so long. The sound of joints popping echoed around me, followed by Bella's content sigh.

"I'm coming out," she warned me cheerily.

I kept my eyes on my paint, mixing different colours that would eventually produce the metallic gleam of the shower door frame. My glance up was too soon. I caught a brief eyeful of Bella's bare back before her robe was tied securely around her.

She left when I began adding in the bathroom details. I knew she stayed away to save me from distractions, but I wish she stayed with me, just as company. Being holed up in my bathroom for the inordinate amount of time was making me claustrophobic. The more I had to stare at the cracked tiles, the more I realized just how ugly it really was. Did the room always smell so musty? Was it always this dark? Did mould always creep down, threatening to devour the room in black dots? And why the hell was the room getting smaller?

After what felt like a solid two hours of distracted and scattered dabbling of my paintbrush, I bolted out of the room. Barely avoiding the wet canvas, I somehow managed to catch my foot on the corner of the door and stumble back into my bedroom. Of course Bella was there, changed into a casual t-shirt and jeans ensemble. Then again, if Alice purchased them, it'd be a designer tee and jeans ensemble.

She smirked as she turned off the vacuum cleaner, amused at my ungraceful entry. I grinned sheepishly at her.

"Done so soon? You haven't even been there for two hours." She was watching me carefully.

Time passes slowly when you're away from Bella. To her, I grimaced. "Honestly, it's no fun without you."

Bella frowned, but I could tell from the gleam in her eyes that she wasn't displeased. "Should I change?" She jerked her thumbs to the closet.

Always self-sacrificing. "No, of course not. But I'm hungry. You want to go to that pizzeria?"

She rolled her eyes. Snagging the keys to my Volvo, she threw them at me underhand. I only had to take three steps to get within catching distance.

"No. I think I'll cook."

Now I was frowning. "There's no kitchen. I don't even own a toaster."

"Oh, I know."

--

In the kitchen, Bella almost managed to be graceful. She flitted from counter to cupboard with ease, never doubting what she was doing. As she marinated a steak, I heard her humming to herself. I grinned from behind the newspaper I was reading, bemused at Bella's easy happiness at being busy in a kitchen.

A half hour later while I paced and drooled, the table was laid in all its best china, the plates with only small chips and the glasses with none at all. Bella gave me the largest steak, generously heaping a mountain of mashed potato on the side. Stir-fried vegetables were heaped on the other side, colourful in variety. I waited until Bella had taken off the beastly apron, covered in gruesome stains, to begin eating.

I was aware of her eyes on me as she swirled her orange juice in its glass. Carefully, I cut the steak into even sections, forking it into my mouth.

For a moment, I chewed, keeping my face blank. After I'd washed down the steak with orange juice, I stabbed a few vegetables and popped them into my mouth too.

"Hmm," I said around a mouthful of potato.

Gulping loudly, I swallowed. And then I smiled at Bella's anxious expression. Her glass was clutch in her hand too tightly to be considered normal, her knuckles white in exertion. Finally, I couldn't hold it in any longer and burst into raucous laughter.

"What?" Bella cried, alarmed. "Is it that bad?"

I caught her hand as it snuck over to my side of the table, most likely to yank the plate back. "No, Bella, it's delicious. I honestly haven't eaten a home-cooked meal for years, unless you count the pity dinners at Carlisle's. I was just messing with you."

Suddenly, I was worried. Bella was usually in good humour, but for her to cook for me and then for me to borderline insult it…It was a joke of bad taste.

I didn't expect the relief to be written so plainly on Bella's face. However, it was followed by a narrow gaze of suspicion that made me wary. "If you say so. Eat up then."

I eagerly began shovelling food into my mouth while maintaining a conversation in the rare moments my speaking didn't turn into incomprehensible mush.

"Where's Angela?" I asked before silencing myself with a forkful of steak.

Bella was eating much slower than I, ever the picture of well-mannered breeding. I contemplated slowing to an acceptable speed of consumption but decided it might inadvertently insult Bella. Her mind did not work on the same frequency most did.

"Out with Ben to visit the Louvre again." This was punctuated by rolling eyeballs. "You know, I did call in beforehand. This isn't an impromptu visit."

I chucked at her obstinate defence of herself. When would she learn I was not attacking?

When I'd had two more mountains of potato and another steak, Bella was satisfied that her cooking did not suck. She refused my compliments, but blushed madly at every one.

I eyed the leftovers saran-wrapped and left on the counter to cool down. There was enough for dinner, maybe even breakfast. "We're bagging the leftovers, aren't we?"

Bella glided by me, dishes precariously balanced on one hand. Somehow, she managed to tip them into the sink in a way that only caused the silverware to clatter minimally. I immediately rushed to her side to help with the remaining dishes.

"Why would we? They're for Angela. God knows she's probably barely surviving off of Hungry-Man dinners."

I liked Angela and everything, but this was too generous of Bella. I sidled up to her side as she began washing the dishes, drying them as they were passed to me.

"What do you owe her?" I made my voice light, teasing, so Bella would know I did not mean my question with any malicious intent behind.

She gave me a look of blatant disbelief. "We are using her kitchen."

"You're paying half the rent," I argued back. "And besides, we're already doing the dishes. That's enough thanks. Look—you've even done the ones that were here before we crashed."

Bella snorted. "You are such a man."

"Meaning?"

"You're insensitive to the plight of others."

I snickered and her eyes flashed to mine with mock annoyance. "Big words there, Bella."

Her brows pulled together. "Why don't you just buy me a kitchen? Then I can cook for you all the time." Her lips curled slyly around the edges, informing me that she was teasing. But it was an intriguing idea…

--

"Esme, could I ask a favour of you?"

--

Any guesses as to what will happen next? Don't hesitate to share your thoughts/criticisms/questions with me (and yes, I am planning on replying to every review. Calm down). ;P


	25. Chapter 25

**I swear that is the longest vacation I will ever take from this fic. First, my other life got too intimately acquainted with me, and then I was suffering from that terrible affliction known as writer's block. But I'm back now! Thanks to my beta, sisipepperell. And to cullenite21: you wanted some Esme!**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Artist's Model**

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

--

Chapter 25: Design

"Incroyable," she muttered, leaving my Volvo door wide open. As I passed by, I nudged it shut, planting myself beside Esme.

Her hand was up, shielding her face from the sunlight that had managed to stream through the canopy of trees. She squinted at the thick forest in the exact opposite direction of the house.

"Incroyable," she repeated again. "How did you manage to find such a spectacular lot? And so conveniently located, too."

I smiled wryly. "I happened across it one day when I was lost. The lot was for sale. So I had the house built for my parents. It was to be a surprise for them. They'd always wanted a summer cottage on the outskirts of Paris."

Esme dropped the topic, perhaps sensing my reluctance to indulge any further. "But your hard work will not be wasted," she said chirpily in her bizarrely accented English. It was one of Esme's many quirks—she insisted on speaking English with me as practice, despite her vocabulary being greater than mine. All that remained to betray her French roots was the slight inflection she spoke with. "Let us see this house."

I led her up the whitewashed steps, remembering fondly my mother's ridiculous romantic notions of big blue shutters and picket fences. I had a feeling something of that classic style would appeal to Bella.

The door creaked open. I made a mental note to oil it later. Esme bravely stepped in first, frowning unconsciously at the thick layer of dust blanketing the floor. I ran my hand through my hair nervously. Perhaps I should've cleaned up a little, or at least dusted.

Esme wandered through the generous foyer, pausing occasionally to touch a wary finger to a panel of wood. Where she touched, the wood that showed through was darker, freed from the coating of dust. I saw the approval in her eyes as she took in the Brazilian cherrywood floor, darkened by daily sunshine. However, the expression in her eyes changed as she took in the wall that was shabbily slathered in primer—home décor never interested me. I had planned for my mother to decorate her own home.

A massive chandelier hanging above the winding staircase greeted us with a muted gleam of dripping crystals.

I followed Esme as she prowled, always a step behind. Ever so often she would mutter something under her breath while casting me a dark glance, but mostly she was silent. The subdued light of the hallway eventually gave in to streaming light from the kitchen.

A slight nudge of the double panelled French doors and the kitchen was exposed. Strange how cold and detached a room could be when it was only occupied by silver appliances. Esme immediately began prodding things, opening and closing the solid oak cupboards.

"Granite?"

"Yes," I responded arrogantly. "No need to check the appliances. They were all top of the line a few years ago, but are still perfectly usable. They're energy efficient, anyways."

Her lips twisted, no doubt suppressing a smile. Esme knew me well enough to not take offence when I felt snappish. "However, I think even you will admit the light is a tad outdated." I followed her finger with my eyes to the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. The dust was so thick, the lightbulb appeared to be covered in fur.

I smiled in acquiescence. "A bit more than a tad outdated, I think."

After taking a few notes on a notepad she had magically procured, seemingly out of thin air (though I noticed later that her dress had its practicalities—large pockets were sewn in, but disguised. Clever), we continued down the hallway.

Her next words were spoken softly as if she was hesitant to disturb the cobwebs that clung fiercely to the stones of the ancient fireplace. "Did you have any specific plans for this room concerning furniture or layout?"

The room, thick with dust and trapped sunlight, clogged my throat. I was lost for words as I pictured the room to my mother's taste. Full of squat armchairs and intricate tables adorned by tall lamps that cast long shadows of yellow light. No doubt she would be curled around a book, a crystal filled halfway with dark wine elegantly grasped in her right hand. And my father would be slouching on an armchair, the latest newspaper obscuring him from view. I pushed the thought aside. This was Bella's house now.

"I was thinking of having a piano in here." My voice was gritty. I coughed quietly in my throat in an attempt to clear the gunk.

"The one you have hidden in your studio?" I appreciated the casualness Esme tried to inject in her voice despite it being very obvious that she disapproved. I sympathized with her horror, however. It would be odd to have my decrepit piano in its 119th year occupying this room that was clearly meant to be elegant. Then again, the piano did hint at old splendour with its ivory keys, grooved from use, and delicate construction. But it would need a lot of work on it to restore it to its full grandeur. Was it worth the splurge?

I shook my head, bringing myself back to Esme's question. "No. I've been waiting for an opportunity to buy a Steinway concert grand, and now I finally have space enough for it. Or do I?"

Esme eyed the room, speculating. "No, but it will limit our options as to where to put it. I'm assuming you'll want it in natural light?"

I nodded. "Preferably, although I am not adverse to the idea of playing in the dark."

She smiled kindly at me, but did not comment. "And did you want any specific theme in this room or did you want it to match the plans for the kitchen?"

"I'd prefer if the entire house had a similar design scheme."

"Of course," Esme sighed. "Unity, but with variety."

I smirked. Esme would know every artist's mantra.

--

It became harder to deflect Bella's suspicion as the days dragged by. My excuses for leaving became flimsier and flimsier, and her lips had pursed in disbelief on more than one account. Becoming desperate, I phoned Emmett, asking about wedding details. When he launched into a rant about needing time alone to spend with his sculptures, I casually suggested that Alice and Bella help Rosalie out in her wedding planning. I knew Alice would be delighted to be dragged into wedding Hell, but I had a feeling Bella would be more reluctant to step into the flames. But the next weekend, both Alice and Rosalie showed up on the doorstep, prepared to tow the protesting Bella away. I waved guiltily as they shoved her none-too-gently into the backseat, knowing that she did not suspect me of being the traitor.

That freed up my weekends to go shopping with Esme for furniture and paint. After contacting Steinway and inquiring about the price of their pianos, I decided even my bank account couldn't survive a hit like that. And so Esme and I frequently spent the evenings together, painting. Well, I painted while Esme poured over different catalogues and made phone calls to specialty furniture shops, pausing occasionally to let me know I missed a spot.

On one particular day, we purchased a sofa and coffee table for the den, having found something appropriate in a mere three hours. We both dug for our credit cards when the cashier rang for the total.

Esme shot me a glare while simultaneously smiling. She covered my hand with what would appear to outsiders as a maternal pat, but I knew better. "Edward, think of it as a gift."

I protested, "But you're already volunteering your time without pay—"

"Nonsense." Her casual words were belied by her fierce struggle to stick my credit card back into my pocket. She was surprisingly strong, but it was not a struggle for me to resist. "Bella's almost family." I wasn't sure if I appreciated the sly look she shot me.

"You can pay for everything in the master bedroom," I promised Esme, hoping that a compromise might placate her.

I took advantage of her momentary distraction and slipped the cashier a different credit card. She, who had been watching our exchange with interest, quickly finished the exchange, apparently cowed by Esme's murderous expression.

I pretended I didn't notice it.

After, Esme was a nightmare. She insisted on buying us a ridiculously overpriced king-sized mattress and furniture only made from some sort of exotic wood from Africa for the master bedroom. I managed to talk her out of painting the room with a paint containing flakes of real gold, slating the poor ventilation in the room would ensure that the stench of metallic chemical waste remained for at least a week, and I planned on moving in before that. Instead, Esme purchased several tubs ridiculously overpriced Martha Stewart paint. Over $100 a gallon; really, Martha?

The total purchases for one room near doubled the amount I'd paid so far for all the other rooms combined, excepting the Steinway of course. I retaliated by purchasing a state-of-the-art sound system for the cinema room we planned for the basement. And to even the count, I also bought a projector and Blu-Ray player. Esme scowled fiercely when she saw the receipt.

--

At half past one, a truck came by to drop off what appeared to be the entire Keukenhof garden. I grimaced when the driver asked me to sign a slip of paper confirming that I'd gotten the order, all the while assuring me that everything had already been paid for. When he drove away, the tires kicking up dirt and dust, I rounded towards the house.

"Esme," I called, my voice dangerously quiet.

She strolled into the foyer, humming cheerfully with a duster in her hand. One look at my reddening face and she was backing away, making the connection between my anger and the hydrangeas and whatnot polluting the air.

"Did you pay someone to drop off these?" I gestured wildly at the monstrosity behind me.

Esme checked her watch, the embodiment of unconcerned surprise. "Already? They weren't due until two." Catching my eye, she huffed and replied, "They are to brighten up the house, alright? I thought you said Bella liked freesia."

"I don't see any freesia," I responded flatly.

"They're behind the pink tea roses," Esme responded cheerfully. "Give me a hand, will you? I was under the impression you wanted to bring Bella here by five for supper."

Grudgingly, I helped Esme distribute the flowers among the three stories of the house. Separated, their population was no longer daunting. And even I had to admit they brightened up each room considerably.

By four o'clock, the foyer was siphoned of any remaining dirt, and Esme was preparing to leave. I allowed myself a moment of weakness and hugged her awkwardly, a full two inches of space between us. Esme, though surprised, reacted warmly enough, patting me gently on the shoulder.

"Bella will adore the house," she told me confidently.

I was counting on it.

--

Incroyable = incredible. That pretty much sums up my French vocabulary. Next update could be up as early as later today, but definitely by tomorrow! I figure you guys deserve that much. As usual, leave me your thoughts...


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